PILGRIM  PAPER 


THE  WHITINGS  OF 

THOMAS  Wf  IH!D, 


ROBERT 


PILGRIM  PAPERS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

A  CITY  OF  THE  DAWN 
THE  DRIFT  OF  PINIONS 
STANDING  BY 

E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


PILGRIM  LPAPERS 

FROM  THE  WRITINGS  OF  FRANCIS 
THOMAS  WILFRID,  PRIEST 


BY 
ROBERT  KEABLE 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


.  •   ,  v  Copyright,  1921 
By  fc;  F.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

, ;  .'  V '«  }  Ail  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  the  Vnlted  States  of  America 


I 

<r~ 


TO 

SYBIL, 
A  RESOLUTE  PILGRIM 


GS6299 


f  Friend,  of  my  infinite  dreams 

Little  enough  endures ; 
Little  however  it  seems 

It  is  yours,  all  yours. 

1  Fame  hath  a  fleeting  breath  : 

Hopes  may  be  frail  or  fond  ; 
But  Love  shall  be  Love  till  death, 
And  perhaps  beyond." 

ARTHUR  CHRISTOPHER  BENSON. 


CONTENTS 


PAQB 

FOREWORD . ix 

1.  OF  TRAVELLERS  AND  TRAVELLING 1 

2.  OF  THE  BEASTS  AT  EPHESUS 10 

3.  OF  THE  TEN  COMMANDMENTS 17 

4.  OF  GOD  OR  ALLAH 28 

5.  OF  WANTING  GOD 34 

6.  OF  A  SUNDAY  IN  THE  MISSION 44 

7.  OF  MISUNDERSTANDINGS 56 

8.  OF  THE  MISSION  PACK-SADDLE 66 

9.  OF  THE  BEST  IN  LIFE 74 

10.  OF  AARON  AND  GAMALIEL 86 

11.  OF  A  VILLAGE  UNDER  THE  MOON 100 

12.  OF  THE  LOVE  OF  GOD 108 

13.  OF    THE    TOUCHING    OF    THE    WORLD    IN- 

TANGIBLE   115 

14.  OF  THE  TRUE  RICHES 124 

15.  OF  THE  SHOUTING  OF  THE  SONS  OF  GOD  . .   132 

16.  OF  THE  BITTER  CROSS 140 

17.  OF  TERESA 148 

18.  OF  WILFRID 156 

19.  OF  SOME  SICK  VISITS 167 

20.  OF  THE»  BISHOPS'  PRAYERS 175 

21.  OF  A  DISPUTED  QUESTION 185 

22.  OF  THE  COST  OF  MISSIONS 195 

23.  OF  A  MOUNT  OF  TEMPTATION 203 

24.  OF  RELICS  AND  FRIENDS 212 

25.  OF  CONCLUSIONS 221 

26.  OF  THE  RAINBOW'S  END 230 

vii 


FOREWORD 


THEEE  were  few,  it  is  certainly  fair  to  say, 
who  knew  Francis  Thomas  Wilfrid,  of  the 
Mission,  as  I  knew  him,  and  that  very 
knowledge  embarrasses  me  not  a  little  in  writ- 
ing any  sort  of  foreword  to  these  Papers.  He 
confided  them  to  me  just  before  the  end;  and 
now  that  his  day  is  done,  and  he  will  never 
speak  or  minister  upon  the  Berg  again,  I  feel 
that  the  time  has  come  to  make  them  public. 
These  that  he  called  therein  "letters"  were 
written  chiefly  on  the  last  of  his  journeyings, 
as  I  know  to  my  sorrow,  for  some,  indeed,  pen- 
cilled on  scraps  of  paper  in  hut  or  camp,  have 
been  none  too  easy  to  decipher.  To  whom  they 
were  written  was  his  secret,  and  is  now  mine. 
They  are  presented  here  substantially  as  he 
wrote  them,  and  if  I  have  deleted  a  sentence  in 
one  or  two,  he  would  not,  I  am  sure,  feel  that 
I  had  done  wrong.  Such  sentences  seem  to  me, 
as  I  read  them  now,  of  too  intimate  a  character 
for  the  general  public;  but  I  have  not  removed 
every  personal  touch. 

For  it  is  by  something  of  which  that  personal 
touch  is  a  symbol  that  I  think  he  would  wish  to 
be  known  or  remembered.  Wilfrid  had  many 

ix 


x  FOREWORD 

faults  in  his  ministry,  faults  which,  indeed,  he 
often  deplored  most  deeply  when  he  and  I  were 
alone,  and  of  which  I  knew  him  to  be  very 
conscious  when  he  knelt  in  the  presence  of 
Almighty  God.  He  was  erratic,  hasty,  too  easily 
moved,  and  hardly  ever  steadily  persistent 
enough  in  routine  work  to  make  a  successful 
priest.  But  he  was  at  least  intensely  sincere, 
and  the  natives,  to  whom  he  was  called  more 
especially  to  minister  by  the  nature  of  the  dis- 
trict, had  a  real  place  in  his  affection.  He  ever 
went  to  the  altar  bearing  them  in  his  heart  as 
the  high-priest  of  the  old  Law  carried  the  names 
of  the  children  of  Israel  on  the  golden  and 
jewelled  breastplate.  And  as  for  the  Euro- 
peans, to  whom  he  was  mostly  an  eccentric 
enigma,  it  may  certainly  be  said  that  he  never 
regarded  them  as  they  too  often  thought  he  did. 
He  despised  no  man's  faith,  if  it  were  genuine; 
he  resented  no  criticism,  if  it  were  just;  but  he 
found  ignorant  and  bigoted  hostility  very  hard 
to  bear.  Towards  that  he  exhibited,  more  un- 
consciously than  consciously  it  is  true,  a  certain 
only  half -veiled  contempt,  for  which  he  himself 
was  sincerely  sorry  again  and  again.  He  would 
say  often  in  self -rebuke  that  under  no  circum- 
stances should  a  Christian  ever  be  contemptuous 
of  any  one,  that  of  all  things  contempt  was  most 
foreign  to  the  mind  of  God. 

Thus,  then,  he  was  eager  for  friendship,  in- 
tensely eager,  and  he  rarely  found  it.    If  sym- 


FOREWORD  xi 

pathetic  understanding  were  offered  to  him  in 
any  measure  he  responded,  if  anything,  too 
readily,  and  in  consequence  laid  himself  open 
to  more  than  one  rebuff.  But  his  longing  to 
receive  and  to  share  human  intimacy  was  the 
best  thing  in  him,  and  it  finds  illustration  in 
the  occasional  heart  to  heart  language  that  I 
have  spared  in  these  letters.  " Tread  softly," 
he  would  doubtless  have  me  quote,  "for  you 
tread  on  my  dreams." 

This  correspondence  (if  it  should  be  so  called) 
is,  indeed,  largely  of  the  stuff  of  which  dreams 
are  made;  but  I  trust  no  reader  will  lightly 
dismiss  the  substance  of  many  of  these  Papers 
on  that  account.  Thinking  them  singularly 
appropriate  for  more  reasons  than  one,  I  have 
ventured  to  preface  two  lovely  little  verses  by 
Mr.  Arthur  Christopher  Benson,  now  Master  of 
Magdalene  College  in  the  University  of  Cam- 
bridge. For  there  may  be  reality  in  dreams, 
and  there  are  dreams  of  reality.  In  Wilfrid's 
letters  I  detect  a  good  deal  of  both.  At  any  rate, 
he  sacrificed  his  life  to  his  dreams,  and  a  man 
can  hardly  set  higher  attestation  than  that  to 
his  faith  that  they  are  true.  If  too  little  endures 
of  them,  does  he  not  herein  offer  all  that  there 
is  to  his  friend? 

But,  even  considered  as  letters,  it  is  plain  to 
me  that  these  are  largely  dream-letters,  for  they 
were  not  despatched  through  the  post  as  they 
now  stand  and  as  Wilfrid  committed  them  to 


xii  FOREWORD 

my  care.  "Here,"  he  said  as  he  gave  them  to 
me,  "read  these,  will  you?  and  edit  them  one 
day  if  you  like.  Say  that  they  have  indeed 
been  written  on  the  face  of  the  Berg,  the  old 
Berg  that  has  claimed  the  best  part  of  my  life; 
that  they  are  true  enough  pictures  of  workyand 
journeying  there;  and  that  I  publish  them  be- 
cause I  want  to  make  an  apologia  and  have 
no  wit  or  learning  to  do  it  as  some  of  my  masters 
have  done.  They  show  what  I  thought  and  tried 
to  do,  and  maybe,  if  you  can  arrange  to  print 
them,  they  will  at  last  reach  their  destination. 
For,  since  they  deal  with  heartfelt  things,  why 
should  not  heart  cry  to  heart  across  a  world?" 
I  think  it  better  not  to  write  down  all  that  I 
suppose  him  to  have  meant  by  that  rather 
strange  conclusion;  besides,  quite  possibly  that, 
too,  was  part  of  a  dream. 

His  words,  however,  when  it  is  noticed  how 
often  they  are  repeated  by  him,  suggest  a  title 
that  I  rather  fancy  he  may  have  designed  for 
this  book.  It  is  pre-eminently  a  book  of  "The 
Face  of  the  Berg. ' 9  But  it  is  still  more  the  book 
of  a  man,  a  personality,  and  I  have  preferred 
to  indicate  that  that  man  was  on  a  pilgrimage 
in  more  senses  than  one.  How  far  he  travelled 
as  some  may  think  God  wished  him  to  travel 
I  shall  not  venture  an  opinion  here,  but  I  feel 
his  descriptions  of  that  journey  are  better  called 
"Pilgrim  Papers." 

Still  it  is,  I  think,  open  to  me  to  say  this: 


FOREWORD  xiii 

that  I  can  quite  understand  how  he  came  to 
dream  such  letters  on  the  face  of  that  mighty 
Berg,  whose  world-message  has  not  been  at- 
tempted, so  far  as  I  know,  before.  Nothing 
more  suggestive  of  reality  as  commonly  under- 
stood can  well  be  imagined  than  those  wind- 
swept, sun-kissed,  often  snow-washed  krantzes 
that  tower  up  10,000  feet  and  more  towards 
God.  It  is  no  easy  thing  to  travel  on  them.  The 
stones  of  their  poor  and  winding  paths;  their 
hardy,  bleak  clusters  of  reeds,  thistles,  moun- 
tain-grass, and  scrubby  bush;  their  fierce  sun, 
blistering  wind,  and  bitter  cold  in  quick  succes- 
sion; the  rough  living  and  primitive  passions 
of  the  folk  who  shelter  on  them — all  these  are 
realities  of  earth,  beyond  doubt.  Wilfrid  was 
conscious  enough  of  them,  as  his  letters  show, 
and  yet  it  was  there  that  he  felt  so  keenly  the 
mantle  of  the  world  intangible.  And  no  wonder, 
for  the  very  openness  of  the  smile  of  some  sunlit 
valley,  or  the  stillness  of  some  mist-wrapped 
peak,  or  the  expectation  that  seems  written  on 
the  great  grass  plains,  reaching  up  in  every 
flower  and  blade  to  Him  Who  bade  them  be, 
had  but  one  meaning  to  the  man  who  spent 
so  much  time  there.  "We  are,"  he  said  to  me 
once,  "waiting  in  an  antechamber,  and  there 
is  silence  among  those  that  know,  for  they  sus- 
pect that  the  curtain  is  about  to  be  pulled  aside, 
and  that  the  Presence  will  step  out  among 
them." 


xiv  FOREWORD 

Wilfrid  longed,  I  know,  for  the  drawing  of 
that  curtain  while  he  was  on  the  Berg,  and  more 
than  expected  that  he  would  resolve  the  mys- 
teries of  the  Presence  Chamber  at  the  very  least. 
An  early  letter  expresses,  with  pathetic  con- 
fidence, that  hope.  And  he  learned  much,  it  is 
true,  enough,  indeed,  to  conceive  himself  justi- 
fied in  taking  a  step  indicated  here.  But  at 
the  end  he  expressed  to  me  his  conclusions  char- 
acteristically, and  in  a  moment  of  farewell  that 
I  am  not  likely  ever  to  forget.  I  had  gone  out 
alone  from  the  homestead  in  East  Griqualand 
to  meet  him,  and  we  were  standing  in  the  dying 
day  on  the  edge  of  a  little  green  acacia  spinney 
where  a  path  ends  at  a  gate  so  set  that  a  watcher 
may  see  afar  off  the  sunset  lights  on  the  great 
Basuto  peaks.  Wilfrid  stood  long  gazing  at 
them,  and  then  turned  to  me  with  rather  a  wist- 
ful smile.  ' '  The  grand  old  Berg, ' '  he  said,  *  '  has 
chiefly  taught  me,  after  all,  how  to  wait." 

He  was  right.  At  the  very  best  we  see  through 
a  glass  darkly,  till  the  day  break  and  the 
shadows  flee  away. 

E.  K. 

SOUTH  AFRICA, 
1920. 

P.  S. — I  have  to  thank  Mr.  John  Lane,  who  holds  the 
copyright,  for  permission  to  print  Mr.  Arthur  C.  Benson's 
poem. 


PILGRIM  PAPERS 


PILGRIM  PAPERS 


1.  OF  TRAVELLERS  AND  TRAVELLING 

SOME  people  like  journeys  on  the  edge  of 
things  and  into  the  unkown,  and  some 
people  do  not.    I  am  one  of  those  who  do, 
and  I  find  also  a  dreadful  amusement  in  travel- 
ling with  those  who  do  not.    So  I  could  hardly 
fail  to  enjoy,  my  dear,  this  first  stage  towards 
the  Berg. 

We  left  the  city  fairly  early — at  half-past 
seven — in  a  little  composite  train  of  coal  trucks 
and  live-stock  waggons  and  passenger  coaches, 
in  which  the  greater  number  of  us  were  natives. 
It  was  a  perfect  day,  with  the  sun  golden  on  the 
new- washed  trees  and  fields,  and  we  meandered 
slowly  across  the  heart  of  Natal.  At  first  Indian 
houses  seemed  to  be  everywhere,  and  Indian 
women,  in  their  highly  coloured  wraps,  were 
gay  on  the  tiny  stations  and  in  the  little  settle- 
ments set  among  market  gardens  and  wattle 
plantations.  But  as  the  proportion  of  veld  to 
cultivated  lands  grew,  and  as  we  climbed  over 
kopje  after  kopje,  each  a  little  higher  than  be- 
fore, the  native  huts  increased.  Towards  mid- 


2  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

day  w',3  were  ainong  tlie  mountains,  stretch  on 
stretch  and  fold  on,  fold,  great  grassy  slopes  and 
stone-strewn  summits,  with  the  white  clouds 
chasing  each  other  across  them.  Then  not  only 
were  there  natives,  but  natives  to  whom  dress 
regulations  became  increasingly  unimportant. 

Alas  that  they  do  not  become  entirely  so !  A 
Zulu  girl,  her  little  fringe  of  beadwork  about 
her  waist,  but  otherwise  naked  and  unashamed, 
who  stands  and  looks  at  you  straight  as  a  lance 
and  fearlessly,  is  a  beautiful  creature,  but  a  girl 
in  a  ragged,  dirty  skirt  that  ends  half-way  to  the 
knee,  with  a  piece  of  old  sacking  pulled  up  to 
her  throat  and  tied  behind  her  neck  like  the  top 
half  of  an  apron,  is  neither  decent  in  the  conven- 
tional sense  nor  beautiful.  Really  the  whole 
thing  is  an  amazing  comment  on  our  civilisa- 
tion. They  accuse  missionaries  in  the  books  of 
dressing  up  the  savage,  and  we  have  been,  I 
suppose,  dreadfully  to  blame,  but,  after  all,  mis- 
sionaries do  dress  their  people  more  or  less 
decently,  and  if  the  garments  lack  artistic  merit, 
that  is  merely  due  to  the  fact  that  so  few  really 
pious  missionaries  have  any  sense  of  the  beauti- 
ful. Their  minds  are  astonishingly  little.  But 
it  is  the  civilisation  of  the  average  farmer  and 
trader  and  the  petty  Government  regulation  that 
has  dressed  these  people  so,  and  the  mind  behind 
that  is  not  merely  little :  it  is  non-existent,  or  if 
existent,  warped  and  futile  beyond  words. 

But  this  is  a  lamentable  digression.    I  was 


OF  TRAVELLERS  AND  TRAVELLING   3 

going  to  say  that  we  came  out  into  mountainous 
country  that  could  easily  be  seen  to  be  a  rib 
of  the  world  and  might  possibly  have  been  mis- 
taken for  the  backbone.  We  wound  tortuously 
up  one  side  of  a  valley  and  as  tortuously  down 
the  other.  In  one  place  we  passed  the  back  door 
of  a  cottage,  and  twenty  minutes  later  came 
back  and  passed  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the 
front  door.  Wonderful  vistas  opened  up  at 
every  turn,  and  sometimes  one  could  glimpse 
the  road  to  the  heart  of  all  but  untamed  hills. 
I  was  entranced;  most  of  my  companions  slept. 
Before  me  a  stout  person  lolled  with  his  head 
on  one  side  and  his  mouth  so  widely  open  that 
one  could  see  the  stopping  in  his  back  teeth. 
Such  is  the  lord  of  the  world  in  his  off  moments. 

Finally,  after  one  o'clock  we  pulled  in  to  the 
junction  and  centre  of  life  in  these  parts.  There 
must  have  been  quite  half  a  dozen  houses,  ahH 
there  was  a  dining-room  on  the  station.  After 
a  while  my  first  train  went  on;  a  little  later  a 
second  departed  in  another  direction;  and, 
finally,  the  one  passenger  coach  of  the  train 
destined  for  me  appeared.  And  thus,  then,  the 
thinning  of  my  companions  left  me  with  the 
gentleman  who  does  not  like  travelling  on  the 
edge  of  things. 

He  was  stoutish,  and  he  opened  fire  by  pulling 
his  ticket  from  his  pocket  some  time  after  the 
train  had  started  and  asking  me  pathetically  if 
that  was  "all  right"  for  the  terminus.  I  can- 


4  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

not  think  it  was  a  reasoned  action,  only  just 
the  groping  of  a  bewildered  soul  after  any  in- 
formation. I  scrutinised  it,  and  told  him  that 
I  could  see  no  reason  why  he  should  not  arrive 
without  further  expense  if  he  sat  still,  but  as 
our  train  takes  four  and  a  half  hours  (with 
luck)  to  traverse  forty-nine  miles,  I  told  him 
he  must  sit  very  still.  On  that  he  launched  out. 
He  had  come  from  what  the  inhabitants  of  Lon- 
don would  call  the  wilds  (and  in  them  he  had 
lived  most  of  his  life),  and  he  was  actually 
going  to  £he  lone  store  in  the  heart  of  the 
Drakensberg  to  which  I  am  also  wending.  But, 
in  his  judgment,  he  had  come  from  civilisation, 
and  was  going,  he  was  fast  discovering,  beyond 
the  limit.  It  was  really  hard  on  the  store,  where 
we  are  all  so  intensely  proper  and  law-abiding, 
natives  and  white  men  too,  but  I  had  to  agree 
with  him.  He  had  no  idea  how  to  proceed  when 
we  reached  rail-head,  so  I  explained  that  some- 
how we  must  get  on  another  stage  to  the  little 
township  and  yet  another  on  the  morrow  to  the 
farm,  and  that  then  we  must  mount  horses  and 
climb  to  the  10,000-foot  level  and  travel  two 
days  and  sleep  out  at  night  under  the  stars. 
And  he  was  not  at  all  joyful  at  the  prospect, 
as  I  was,  but  rather  he  all  but  wept.  Still  he 
was  stoutish — perhaps  I  should  say  a  shade  more 
than  stoutish — he  was  dressed  in  a  city  suit; 
and  his  luggage  was  contained  in  a  trunk  which, 
if  not  big,  was  at  least  impossible  on  horseback. 


OF  TRAVELLERS  AND  TRAVELLING   ^3 

He  collected  himself  at  last.  How  were  we 
to  get  over  the  miles  from  the  station  to  the 
township,  and  where  should  we  eat  and  sleep? 
I  had  not  an  idea,  but  I  did  know  that  the 
further  you  go,  the  more  easy  all  these  things 
become.  It  is  a  dreadful  business  going  to 
Johannesburg:  you  must  book  a  place  in  a  train 
days  beforehand,  and  you  must  secure  accom- 
modation at  an  hotel  in  advance  (and  very 
likely  these  days  you  will  not  be  able  to  do  so), 
and  you  must  pay;  there  is  no  doubt  that  you 
must  pay.  But  at  the  ends  of  the  earth  any  one 
will  take  you  in,  and  every  one  is  glad  to  see 
you,  and  no  one  is  anxious  to  speed  your  de- 
parture. When  I  last  arrived  in  London,  I  could 
not  get  a  taxi  or  a  cab  for  love  or  money,  and 
when  I  had  obtained  one  by  sheer  force  of  arms, 
I  spent  a  small  fortune  trying  to  find  a  bed- 
room; but  I  was  pretty  sure  a  post-cart  or  a 
car  would  be  waiting  at  the  lonely  little  station 
under  the  Berg.  They  would  not  be  waiting  for 
us,  true,  but  they  would  certainly  be  there  for 
the  mail.  And  if  they  were  not,  we  could  wait; 
they  would  come  some  time. 

Well,  of  course  it  all  turned  out  as  I  had 
thought.  We  found  a  car  waiting  for  the  mail, 
and  we  were  run  out  the  dreaded  miles  in  no 
more  than  an  hour  or  so.  The  little  town, 
marked  by  a  few  hundred  trees  on  the  veld,  took 
us  in  and  was  glad,  for  we  were  ahead  of  last 
week's  papers.  Incidentally  we  now  caught  up 


6  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

the  telegram  my  friend  had  sent  to  the  distant 
store  eight  days  before,  but  that  was  a  small 
matter.  A  boy  came  in  from  the  farm  for  the 
mail,  and  he  took  out  a  note,  so  that  in  the  morn- 
ing a  buggy  was  waiting.  And  at  the  farm 
was  Cyril  with  my  horses,  who  had  come  down 
the  day  before  from  the  towering  peaks  that 
lifted  themselves  so  serenely  into  the  burning 
blue. 

This  sort  of  travelling,  then,  I  love.  One 
never  quite  gets  over  the  surprise  of  it,  even 
although  it  is  always  the  same.  In  the  city 
you  name  some  place  on  the  edge  of  the  world 
and  say  you  want  to  get  there,  and  they  shake 
their  heads  and  pretend  it  cannot  be  done.  You 
search  for  a  map,  and  as  like  as  not  you  cannot 
find  your  place.  Finally  you  discover  the 
farthest  point  known  to  civilisation  on  the  road, 
and  you  go  to  it.  And  there  you  find  a  friend, 
and  a  roof,  and  a  meal,  and  a  welcome,  and  no 
surprise  at  all  that  you  are  there.  I  remember 
setting  off  to  climb  Kilimanjaro,  or  as  much  of 
it  as  I  could.  I  could  find  no  one  who  had  done 
so,  no  one  who  knew  what  lay  beyond  rail-head 
even  if  one  got  there,  no  one  who  did  not  think 
the  getting  beyond  and  up  all  but  impossible. 
And  yet  when  I  arrived  I  found  a  homestead 
nearly  three-quarters  of  the  way  to  the  summit, 
with  a  charming,  cultured,  comfortable  old  Hun 
in  a  smoking  cap  and  a  velvet  jacket,  who  had 
been  there  all  the  time.  Possibly  there  are 


OF  TRAVELLERS  AND  TRAVELLING   7 

places  in  which  it  would  be  otherwise,  but  I 
do  not  believe  it.  I  have  no  sort  of  donbt  that 
it  would  be  perfectly  easy  to  get  to  Papua,  or 
Fiji,  or  Samarkand,  or  Timbuctoo,  if  one  tried, 
and  that  at  the  far  end  there  would  wait  a 
pleasant  person,  very  glad  to  see  you,  with  a 
cup  of  tea  and  a  cigarette. 

It  is  possible  that  you  will  feel  that  this  sort 
of  thing  spoils  the  romance  of  travel,  but  that  is 
quite  a  mistake.  It  adds  to  the  romance;  it 
makes  it  into  a  fairy  story,  in  short,  for  in  every 
fairy  story  there  l%s  always  an  old  woman  by  the 
side  of  the  road  or  a  beautiful  prince  in  a  palace 
to  tell  one  what  to  do  next.  No  amount  of 
experience  makes  the  discovery  less  of  a  sur- 
prise, however;  it  only  gives  a  pleasurable  hope 
to  life.  And  it  is  so  wonderful  to  find  kindly 
and  friendly  humanity  beyond  the  end  of  all 
the  long  roads. 

The  most  wonderful  person  I  have  ever  met 
was  a  traveller  who  knew  the  secret  of  all  this. 
This  traveller  had  just  completed  an  entirely 
solitary  journey  (with  no  more  than  a  dozen 
"boys,"  who  were  constantly  changing  along 
the  road)  up  the  Niger,  through  Hausaland, 
behind  Lake  Tchad,  across  unknown  Central 
Africa,  down  by  the  great  lakes,  through  Ger- 
man East  Africa,  to  Zanzibar.  The  journey 
had  taken  some  sixteen  months,  and  cost  less 
than  £150  from  Charing  Cross  to  the  Indian 
Ocean.  No  newspaper  had  written  it  up,  and 


8  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

no  scientific,  religions,  or  commercial  ambition 
had  inspired  it.  Nor  has  any  account  of  it  ever 
since,  so  far  as  I  know,  been  given  to  the  world. 
And  I  met  the  traveller  the  day  after  she  arrived 
prettily  dressed  and  taking  afternoon  tea! 

Possibly  this  will  be  a  little  more  than  you 
can  believe,  but  it  is  simply  and  strictly  true. 
If  the  lady  is  alive,  I  hope  she  will  pardon  the 
liberty  I  take  in  writing  of  her,  for  I  must  tell 
you  that  she  was  an  ordinary  person,  with  quite 
a  small  income,  who  was  suddenly  released  from 
home  ties,  and  who  there  and  then  determined 
that,  as  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should 
sit  at  home,  she  would  instead  go  afield  in  God's 
wonderful  world.  She  did  not  call  on  Thomas 
Cook  and  Sons,  Ltd.,  and  arrange  her  journey; 
she  did  not  pack  all  the  things  she  would  need; 
and  she  did  not  write  to  the  papers.  She  simply 
took  a  map  and  decided  to  walk  across  Africa, 
and  she  took  the  things  she  could  not  get  on 
without:  salt,  I  think,  and  tea,  and  some  needles, 
and  a  sketching  block,  and  a  change  of  clothes 
— oh,  and  matches.  At  Lagos  they  told  her 
she  was  a  fool;  at  Sokoto  they  wanted  to  arrest 
her  for  a  lunatic.  But  after  that  it  was  easy, 
and  cannibal  chief  passed  her  on  to  naked 
savage  with  the  inborn  politeness  (and  super- 
stition) of  the  raw  native.  She  did  not  even 
take  a  revolver,  but,  I  think,  some  aspirin  and 
quinine,  for  if  you  shoot  brotherman  anywhere 
in  this  wide  world,  it  creates  an  unpleasantness, 


OF  TRAVELLERS  AND  TRAVELLING   9 

and  you  cannot  get  far,  whereas  if  yon  heal 
him,  you  can  go  anywhere.  Still  even  quinine 
is  not  really  necessary;  you  can  heal  most  of 
his  troubles  with  a  smile. 

I  think  you  hardly  believe  this  as  you  read  it, 
but  I  assure  you  it  is  true.  My  experience  has 
been  singularly  limited,  but  it  is  just  the  same 
so  far  as  it  goes.  One  of  these  days,  perhaps, 
I  shall  be  able  to  prove  to  you  that  I  am  right 
by  setting  off  myself  with  a  pipe,  and  a  stick, 
and  a  haversack  for  Kordofan,  or  Bokhara,  or 
Honolulu,  and  by  writing  you  a  little  book  of 
the  ease  and  pleasantness  of  it.  And  do  you 
know  what  it  teaches  me?  I  feel  so  sure  that 
at  the  end,  unencumbered  by  any  of  the  super- 
fluities that  people  take  en  voyage,  and  un- 
hurried and  serene,  you  and  I  will  set  off  on  the 
final  journey  over  the  edge  of  the  known  and 
find  waiting  for  us  a  friendly  smile  and  a  place 
prepared. 


2.    OF  THE  BEASTS  AT  EPHESUS 

AT  long  last  I  am  back,  my  dear,  where 
for  these  many  days  I  have  longed  to  be 
— longed  to  be,  sometimes  even  when  with 
you.  We  left  the  little  farm  of  which  I  have 
written  in  the  early  dawn  with  the  sun  still  cool, 
and  we  rode  at  first  through  the  lands  with  the 
great  chain  ahead  of  us,  a  sheer  rampart  against 
the  sky.  The  lands  were  green  with  the  new 
mealies,  and  there  was  song  in  the  air  and  al- 
most song  in  my  heart.  Then  we  struck  the 
river,  and  we  crossed  and  recrossed  it,  always 
up  and  up,  through  the  aloe  and  the  cactus  and 
the  sugar-bush  of  semi-tropical  Natal,  till  the 
sun  beat  on  us  and  we  grew  tired.  There  was  a 
snake  asleep  in  the  path  in  one  place,  and  only 
the  river  made  music  untiringly.  And  then  the 
gorge  narrowed  until  the  great  dark  krantzes 
seemed  as  if  they  would  fall  on  us,  and  at  last 
we  were  climbing  up  on  foot  in  and  out  of  the 
tangled  mountain  bushes,  with  the  tiny  stream 
plashing  and  falling  beneath  them,  and  far 
above  the  infinite  blue  sky,  so  seeming  pitiless. 
The  last  few  yards  always  seem  impossible,  but 
we  climbed  over  the  lip  of  the  pass  and  fell  on 

10 


OF  THE  BEASTS  AT  EPHESUS  11 

the  grass  beyond  at  last.  I  scarcely  looked  back. 
I  felt  I  knew  what  lay  behind;  the  secret  of  the 
tangle  is  hid  somewhere  here  ahead. 

Then,  after  a  little,  we  mounted  our  horses. 
It  is  always  wonderful,  the  first  hour  on  the  top 
of  the  Berg.  The  peaks  ahead  crowd  each  other 
in  massed  armies  to  the  far  horizon,  and  their 
valleys  lie  fold  on  fold.  Grass,  and  grey  stone, 
and  blue  sky,  and  a  whispering  wind — that  is 
all.  And  so  we  rode  till  we  came  to  this  place, 
and  Cyril  knew  that  the  tiny  stony  track  ran 
down  now  1,000  feet  to  the  river,  and  that  we 
had  best  sleep  here. 

The  packs  and  packhorses  are  to  meet  us  on 
ahead,  so  our  preparations  to-night  were  simple. 
We  off-saddled  and  turned  the  ponies  loose  to 
feed.  We  collected  dried  dung,  native  fashion, 
and  made  a  fire  for  the  cheer  of  it  only,  as  we 
had  nothing  to  cook  or  in  which  to  boil  water. 
Cold  meat  and  bread,  and  a  cup  of  water,  and  a 
pipe — after  all,  on  a  warm,  fine  evening  up  here 
what  does  one  want  more?  I  smoked  while  the 
stars  came  out.  Still  far  ahead  was  the  purple 
haze  into  which  from  below  it  appears  that  one 
could  almost  climb;  but  the  stars  seemed  nearer. 
We  sat  under  big  boulders  just  off  the  path, 
and  the  wide  valley  sloped  from  our  feet  until 
it  was  lost  in  the  press  of  lower  hills  beyond 
which  the  mountains  rose  again.  There  was  no 
wind  now,  nor  any  sound  at  all,  only  the  dying 
light,  and  the  great  far-stretching  slopes,  and 


12  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

the  brooding  silence.  In  that  silence  it  is  as  if 
one  only  just  fails  to  hear  the  stars. 

Oh,  but  I  am  glad  to  be  here  once  more!  It 
is  so  good  to  feel  infinitely  little  and  to  lie  on 
the  broad  face  of  the  wheeling  earth  powerless 
and  still.  Down  below  people,  and  sounds,  and 
things  jostle,  and  one  has  to  be  something  to 
them  all.  One  is  always  on  guard.  Even  in  the 
streets  of  the  town  the  passers-by  scan  one's 
face  as  if  to  read  it,  and  one  has  to  pose.  The 
brain  is  never  still.  It  hears  and  questions  each 
sound,  and  by  its  servants  the  senses  looks, 
smells,  selects,  rejects,  accepts,  continually.  I 
marvel  that  any  one  can  think  detachedly  at  all 
down  there.  But  up  here  I  am  nothing — a  little 
stone  on  an  untrodden  beach  that  is  just  lapped, 
and  no  more,  by  the  tide  of  life.  Man  in  all  the 
centuries  has  done  nothing  to  change  the  face 
of  things  up  here,  and  it  is  possible  to  set  in 
truer  proportion  his  tiny  works  below.  For  all 
our  knowledge,  for  all  our  binding  and  harness- 
ing of  Nature,  not  otherwise  does  the  world 
roll  through  space  beneath  these  stars — itself 
smaller  to  the  universe  than  even  I  to  this  Berg 
— than  it  rolled  when  the  first  savage  looked  out 
on  the  night. 

It  is  almost  strange,  after  these  weeks,  to  feel 
once  more  at  peace.  I  have  felt  myself  for  so 
long  the  plaything  of  giants  far  stronger  and 
more  subtle  than  St.  Paul's  beasts  at  Ephesus, 
and  the  horror  is  that  one  has  to  wrestle  with 


OF  THE  BEASTS  AT  EPHESUS          13 

them  even  when  tired  heart  and  weary  brain 
crave  for  peace  at  any  price.  Love  and  religions 
controversy — they  are  giants,  are  they  not? 
Well,  here  they  meet  their  match.  On  the  face 
of  the  Berg  they  appear  as  those  tiny  fignres  in 
the  lands  who  dwindled  and  sank  out  of  sight 
as  we  climbed  and  climbed  and  climbed. 

It  is  cnrious  that  they  shonld  so  shrink  away, 
and  I  wonder  why.  After  all,  I  still  love,  and 
I  still  believe,  and  Love  and  Faith  are  still  the 
two  great  facts  of  life.  Bnt  I  suppose  it  is  the 
isolation  which  robs  them  of  their  power  to 
torment.  We  are  sc  bound  up  down  below  in 
others  and  in  affairs  that  we  cannot  love 
straightforwardly  or  believe  straightfor- 
wardly. We  have  to  consider  what  our 
loving  and  believing  will  mean  to  other 
people  or  have  meant  to  them;  we  have  to  set 
ourselves  either  mentally  or  in  fact  against  other 
people;  we  have  to  choose  and  reject  among 
them.  We  cannot  move  in  any  direction  with- 
out treading  on  some  one's  toes.  But  up  here 
Love  and  Eeligion  cannot  fight  in  me  except 
with  God,  and  one  does  not  ultimately,  you 
know,  fight  with  God.  Sometimes,  in  pitiful 
fury,  one  strikes  a  blow  at  Him,  just  as  I  have 
lost  my  temper  before  now  with  the  Berg  and 
kicked  out  at  the  turf!  But  one  does  not  dash 
oneself  to  pieces  against  it.  After  all,  even  that 
would  not  be  a  fight,  for  I  suppose  it  takes  two 
to  fight. 


14  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

I  expect  that  death  will  be  rather  like  this: 
in  life  the  clash  of  struggle,  the  false  propor- 
tions, the  distracted  thinking;  all  through  life 
the  ever  more  weary  and  painful  climbing,  and 
all  through  life  the  growing  sense  of  the  slip- 
ping away  of  the  importance  of  the  world;  and 
then  at  last,  with  the  last  breaths  and  the  sense 
that  we  can  no  more,  the  throwing  of  oneself 
down  upon  the  stretch  of  eternity,  and  the  con- 
sciousness that  after  all  nothing  matters  except 
the  settling  of  these  issues  with  God  and  that 
He  is  really  far  too  big  for  the  word  "settle" 
to  be  used  at  all.  And  then  probably  it  will 
grow  very  dark  for  a  while,  only  the  more  dark 
it  grows,  the  more  clear  will  shine  the  stars, 
until  they  dim  before  the  dawn.  And  in  the 
dawn  we  shall  arise  refreshed  and  look  out  on  a 
new  world. 

Ah  well,  it  may  be  so,  but  the  climb  still  lies 
ahead;  this  is  only  the  picture  of  it.  It  is  only 
that  on  the  face  of  the  Berg  one  may  have  some 
quieting  vision  of  the  end.  And  the  vision  that 
I  would  pass  to  you  is  that  you  must  not  allow 
yourself  to  be  deafened  or  blinded  by  the  noise 
and  the  glare  down  below.  Have  you  ever  tried 
to  break  through  the  surf  to  the  broad  sea? 
If  you  have,  you  know  that  one  has  to  keep 
a  steady  head,  and  not  suffer  the  turmoil  to 
daunt  one.  Breathe  warily;  close  eyes  as  the 
wave  breaks,  and  open  them  afterwards;  put 
power  into  the  stroke  at  the  right  moment,  and 


OF  THE  BEASTS  AT  EPHESUS          13 

never  lose  resolve;  and  yon  are  through.  So 
it  is  with  life,  and  with  these  only  two  big  things 
that  life  holds.  Why,  I  have  thought  in  despair 
that  we  were  doomed  to  die  beneath  them,  and 
that  the  only  concern  that  mattered  was  to  see 
that  one  died  fighting,  face  forward;  but  I  know 
differently  now.  A  man  may  win  through.  He 
may  come  undaunted  unto  God. 

Yet  of  course  you  must  not  think  that  I  feel 
as  I  lie  in  my  blanket  on  this  turf  that  I  have 
done  with  Love  or  Eeligion;  on  the  contrary,  I 
have  come  here  to  settle  these  affairs — if  one 
can  ever  settle  them.  The  curious  thing  is, 
however,  that  now  I  can,  as  it  were,  hold  them 
at  arm's  length  and  look  at  them  almost  dispas- 
sionately. I  feel  that  here  I  may  learn  some- 
thing of  the  secret  of  both,  and  perhaps  arrive 
at  some  definite  philosophy  which  shall  help  me 
to  be  master  of  them.  I  want  to  see  if  I  can 
get  to  any  apprehension  of  what  Love  really  is; 
of  how  it  stands  in  relation  to  physical  passion; 
of  what  one  is  to  do  in  the  dreadful  muddle  that 
the  entry  of  Love  seems  nine  times  out  of  ten  to 
make  of  life,  for  it  will  come  imperiously  in  and 
command  (or  at  least  allure)  to  revolutionary 
things.  Love  is  such  a  two-edged  thing.  It 
seems  to  me  that  more  often  than  not  the  love 
of  any  two  persons  means  bliss  to  them,  but 
agony  to  others.  If  it  is  so,  then  this  Love  is 
a  strange,  ravening  thing,  and  maybe  our  fore- 
fathers did  wisely  to  seek  to  tie  it  down  by 


16  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

conventions  and  proprieties  and  shibboleths. 
But  what  in  the  world  did  they  do  with  their 
hearts,  do  you  suppose?  I  think  those  Victorian 
folk  must  have  cramped  their  children's  hearts 
from  the  start,  like  the  Chinese  women  their 
babies'  feet,  that  they  should  have  succeeded  in 
arriving  at  such  apparent  placidity.  However, 
enough  of  that. 

And  then  there  is  Eeligion.  I  have  to  come 
to  a  conclusion  in  these  months,  as  you  know, 
and  it  is  on  the  face  of  the  Berg  that  I  shall 
come  to  it.  I  write  "  have  to  come,"  for  it  is 
just  that.  There  comes  a  time  in  life  when  one 
must  act  on  the  trend  of  the  years  or  never  act 
at  all.  At  any  rate,  it  cannot  be  right  to  drift 
into  a  form  of  faith,  and  ultimately  stereotype 
in  it  from  sheer  inertia.  Better,  I  think,  to  act 
on  one's  honest  judgment  and  have  to  retrace 
one's  steps  later  on  than  not  act  at  all. 

My  candle-end  is  burning  out,  and  I  want  to 
make  haste  and  extinguish  it.  Then  the  dark- 
ness will  take  me  on  its  breast,  and  not  wall  me 
in  as  it  does  with  this  flicker  by  my  side,  and 
it  will  seem  to  me  that  I  am  part  of  the  velvet 
dusk  and  silence  and  can  swim  out  on  it,  even 
to  you. 


3.    OF  THE  TEN  COMMANDMENTS 

THE  day  before  yesterday  I  was  ten  and 
a  half  lonely  hours  in  the  saddle  on  trek, 
and  yesterday  I  did  what  you  would  least 
expect  in  the  mountains — I  spent  a  whole  day 
browsing  among  novels.    And  so  to-day  I  have 
got  to  write  it  all  for  you. 

Ten  and  a  half  hours  in  the  saddle,  without 
even  Cyril  to  talk  to,  gives  one  time  for  reflec- 
tion, and  yet  it  is  extraordinarily  little  reflec- 
tion that  I  find  I  can  do  in  the  saddle.  I  must 
say  that  I  do  not  think  much  of  that  noble  beast, 
the  horse,  when  it  comes  to  journeying.  There 
is  nothing  more  delightful  than  a  couple  of 
hours  on  a  fresh  horse  for  the  sake  of  the  exer- 
cise, but  that  is  one  thing;  it  is  altogether  an- 
other to  have  to  get  somewhere  a  good  way  off 
in  the  mountains  and  to  have  to  do  it  on  horse- 
back. My  horses  are  nearly  always  tired,  too, 
poor  beasts.  One  jogs  slowly  along,  for  the 
ground  makes  even  a  canter  impossible  for 
hours  at  a  time,  and  the  best  pace  is  one  peculiar 
to  our  country,  a  kind  of  half -trot,  half -walk, 
beloved  of  the  native,  which  certainly  gets  one 
over  the  miles,  but  at  some  expense  to  mind  and 
body  unless  one  is  used  to  it.  Personally,  I 

17 


18  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

always  discover  in  the  mountains  that  I  am  a 
dreadfully  civilised  person.  Pace  haunts  me.  I 
spend  the  hours  unrestfully  in  a  futile  effort  not 
to  miss  the  advantage  of  a  dozen  yards  of  flat, 
and  dreaming  of  motor  cars. 

But  the  curious  thing  is  that  the  day  after 
such  a  ride  I  invariably  find  how  much  it  has 
done  to  sort  one's  ideas,  so  to  speak.  On  this 
trek,  for  example,  I  rode  first  across  the  high 
plateau,  with  mile  on  mile  of  sparse  grass  and 
small  rocks  on  either  hand  and  the  great  blue 
bowl  over  all.  Possibly  I  met  three  natives  in 
six  hours,  and  I  think  I  saw  a  dozen  horses  and 
a  couple  of  dozen  sheep — oh,  and  a  hawk  or  two. 
On  both  sides  and  far  ahead  stretched  the 
rounded  shoulders  of  more  and  more  moun- 
tains, with  great  shadows  that  hinted  of  the 
deep  valleys  between.  And  then  at  last  I 
reached  the  one  I  was  to  follow,  and  descended 
the  tiny  stony  trail,  all  but  lost  here  and  there, 
to  the  minute  stream  that  grew  with  every  mile, 
and  finally  flowed  into  the  Orange  within  a  few 
miles  of  the  store.  Hour  after  hour  I  followed 
it,  in  and  out  of  its  stony  bed,  among  the  flowers 
and  long  grass  to  which  its  water  gives  life, 
often  with  the  high  cliffs  through  which  it  has 
cut  its  way  towering  up  to  left  and  right,  and 
towards  evening  blocking  out  the  sun. 

There  is  music  in  such  a  valley,  the  music  of 
the  singing,  crystal-clear  river,  and  the  noise  of 
little  birds  among  the  rocks.  Once  a  wild  duck 


OF  THE  TEN  COMMANDMENTS         19 

got  up  from  the  reeds  a  few  yards  away,  and 
now  and  again  the  mountain  sheep  came  down 
to  drink.  In  the  solitude  one's  thoughts  wan- 
der, and  one  notices  little  things  and  questions 
them  half  irritatingly.  It  is  only  if  I  have  not 
to  think  of  the  way  lest  I  miss  it,  as  one  so 
easily  can,  and  have  not  to  remember  to  "push" 
lest  the  dark  overtake  me  far  from  a  meal,  that 
I  can  think  consecutively. 

Yet,  as  I  have  said,  one  finds  in  the  end  that 
one's  thoughts  are  clearer.  I  suppose  the 
monotony  of  it  rests  the  brain.  And  I  think, 
still  more,  that  to  be  alone  for  hours  on  the 
breast  of  Nature,  especially  in  these  wild  and, 
on  the  whole,  barren  solitudes,  is  to  tell  how 
trivial  the  petty  things  are  that  make  up  life 
down  below,  and  to  allow  them  to  sink  out  of 
sight. 

So,  then,  at  sunset,  I  reached  the  store.  No 
visitor  had  been  tkere  since  I  said  good-bye  five 
months  before,  and  although  there  was  no  doubt 
as  to  the  sincerity  and  kindliness  of  the  wel- 
come, still  it  amused  me  again,  as  always,  to  see 
how  nonchalantly  they  took  my  coming.  Men 
who  live  much  alone  in  these  mountains  do  not 
run  to  the  windows  to  see  who  in  the  world  is  at 
the  door,  as  dwellers  in  Suburbia  do  with  a 
dozen  callers  a  day.  Mallont  was  tinkering  at 
something  over  by  the  stable,  and  I  rode  up  and 
got  off  and  called  a  boy,  and  partly  off-saddled, 
before  he  came  up  slowly  to  give  me  a  real  grip 


20  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

of  a  hand-shake  and  his  slow  smile.  Day  after 
day  the  immemorial  mountains  and  the  brood- 
ing silences  when  the  packs  have  left  that  ride 
the  wool  and  grain,  and  the  station  is  deserted 
save  for  the  dogs  and  horses  and  a  few  boys, 
have  steadied  that  man's  mind.  A  man  that  can 
stick  ten  years  up  here  without  making  a  brute 
of  himself  with  liquor  or  women  is  a  man.  He 
is  rarely  a  Eadical  and  never  a  Socialist,  and 
yet  it  is  impossible  to  think  of  caste  in  connec- 
tion with  him.  He  fights  a  lone  hand.  He  is 
master,  on  the  face  of  the  Berg  that  has  sub- 
dued the  lords  of  creation  these  untold  cen- 
turies. Where  the  native  builds  his  frail  hut 
and  but  scrapes  the  soil  and  leaves  no  memory, 
he  takes  his  stand  and  wrests  his  own  from  the 
grip  of  Nature.  A  curse  on  your  cities  in  the 
plain  that  drag  him  back  in  the  end  nine  times 
out  of  ten  to  batten  on  his  blood ! 

The  day  after,  I  rested  my  pony,  and  sat  in  a 
deck  chair  within  reach  of  his  book-shelves. 
There  are  up  here,  of  course,  men  who  read 
nothing — at  least,  not  exactly  up  here,  because 
there  is  nobody  else  up  here  at  all  but  in  similar 
circumstances.  But  Mallont  is  not  like  that. 
True,  there  are  vastly  more  novels  on  his 
shelves  than  anything  else,  but  far  be  it  from 
me  to  decry  the  novel.  At  any  rate,  I  can  always 
depend  on  finding  the  latest  on  his  shelves,  and 
nearly  always  a  book  or  two  as  well  that  I  have 
been  waiting  these  many  months  to  read.  So 


OF  THE  TEN  COMMANDMENTS        21 

yesterday  I  lit  my  pipe  and  put  the  tobacco 
handy,  and  gave  myself  up  to  a  long  day's 
browse. 

I  wonder  if  you  know  what  it  is  to  "browse." 
Curiously  enough,  one  rarely  does  down  below. 
The  day  is  always  overloaded  with  things  to  be 
done,  and  if  one  reads,  one  picks  up  the  last 
novel  from  the  library  and  reads  it  steadily  for 
an  hour  or  so.  Yesterday,  now,  I  had  positively 
nothing  else  to  do.  My  body  was  comfortably 
tired  with  the  trek  of  the  day  before,  and  my 
mind  had  been  swept  by  tlie  wind  and  the  sun. 
A  hundred  volumes  stood  within  reach,  and  I 
had  mood  and  opportunity  to  judge  and  reject. 

Among  a  random  hundred  modern  novels, 
then,  up  here,  one  does  indeed  reject.  It  struck 
me,  as  I  sat  there  lazily,  that  a  trek  in  these 
mountains  would  be  a  good  test  for  the  authors 
of  them.  I  imagine  most  of  them  would  be 
unutterably  bored  and  excessively  helpless,  and 
would  be  returned,  as  from  a  nightmare,  as 
quickly  as  possible — to  write  more  novels. 
There  are  exceptions  among  the  novels,  of 
course,  the  exceptions  being  those  which  you 
feel  have  been  written  by  authors  who  have 
seen  at  first  hand  some  phase  of  life,  and  have 
learnt  its  grim  lesson,  and  have  had  to  write  of 
it.  It  is  the  way  in  which  such  a  lesson  is  writ- 
ten up  in  a  novel  in  these  days  that  is  new  more 
than  the  lesson  itself.  If  I  were  to  criticise,  I 
should  say  that  the  weakness  of  such  a  method 


22  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

of  dealing  with  life  lies  in  the  character-draw- 
ing. It  is  so  often  wholly  impressionist.  The 
circumstances  of  life  are  often  drawn  in  boldly 
and  truly,  but  the  men  and  women  who  move 
among  them  strike  one  as  distorted  more  fre- 
quently. One  side  of  them  is  put  under  the 
magnifying  glass,  and  the  rest  diminished  out 
of  sight.  But  there,  possibly  it  has  to  be  so. 

The  great  mass,  however,  are  varyingly  told 
tales  that  one  knows  to  be  but  tales.  Of  such 
I  like  best,  I  must  say,  the  novels  that  are  quite 
obviously  tales,  and  not  the  novels  that  read 
as  if  the  author  were  trying  to  work  out  the 
plot  in  terms  of  real  life.  A  tale  is  a  tale,  and 
to  be  told  it  need  not  fight  shy  of  coincidences 
and  impossibilities.  It  sets  out  to  amuse  for 
an  hour  or  two,  and  that  is  all  one  asks  of  it. 

I  read  somewhere  the  other  day  that  this  was 
the  true  novel,  and  I  think  it  was  the  West- 
minster Gazette  that  described  the  other  as  the 
deadliest  form  of  tract.  So  the  serious  novel 
may  be ;  but  it  is  also  the  modern  sermon  and 
philosophical  or  religious  essay.  Nor  can  I  see 
why  it  should  not  be  so;  indeed,  I  wish  those 
others  would  call  themselves  tales  and  not 
novels.  A  man  may  well  write  tales  to  earn 
his  bread-and-butter  and  to  amuse,  he  being 
your  modern  troubadour;  and  it  is  a  good 
calling.  But  I  would  have  that  if  a  man  write 
a  novel  he  writes  because  the  Spirit  has  fallen 
upon  him,  and  he  must  needs  prophesy  in  the 


OF  THE  TEN  COMMANDMENTS        23 

true  sense  of  that  word.  After  all,  it  is  we 
professional  prophets  who  have  invented  that 
deadliest  and  driest  of  prophetical  mediums, 
the  modern  sermon.  Those  old  firebrands  of 
religious  history,  from  the  Hebrew  prophet  to 
the  mediaeval  friar,  did  not  disdain  parable  and 
story,  the  circumstances  of  the  hour,  the  tongue, 
wit,  sarcasm,  and  invective  of  the  people.  But 
the  modern  preacher  continues  to  base  his 
moralities  on  the  Old  Testament  stories  and  the 
Mosaic  Code,  while  the  modern  novelist  bases 
his  on  the  reason  and  judgment  of  men  to-day, 
whose  eyes  look  out  on  the  new  world  that 
Science  has  opened  up,  and  on  the  Divorce 
Court. 

That  is  the  real  problem  before  us  all.  Is 
Moses  a  back  number,  or  is  he  not?  Is  Leviticus 
Divine  revelation,  or  is  it  primitive  folk-lore? 
It  is  customary  with  many  of  us  parsons  to 
pretend  that  it  is  both,  but  I  am  wondering  if 
we  can  do  so  truly.  It  might  be,  of  course. 
Almighty  God  speaks  in  divers  tongues  and 
manners,  and  He  might  have  spoken  through 
selected  folk-lore.  But  even  if  He  did,  we 
moderns  require  a  modern  medium  if  we  are  to 
hear  and  understand. 

The  major  part  of  these  novels,  for  example, 
are  of  Love  and  Passion,  and  they  well  may  be. 
Passion,  at  any  rate,  is  a  fundamental  and 
universal  law — I  mean  of  course  sexual  passion, 
the  desire  to  mate.  It  is  a  hard  law,  I  think, 


24  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

« 

a  monstrous,  ravening,  horribly  subtle  thing. 
Nature  would  seem  to  fling  decencies  to  the 
winds  to  accomplish  that  supreme  purpose  of 
hers.  She  will  use  any  artifice,  any  enticement, 
to  bring  it  about ;  she  will  murder,  lie,  and  cheat 
to  breed.  Bead  Henri  Fabre,  and  see  her  at  it 
in  the  insect  world ;  read  any  true  modern  novel, 
and  see  her  at  it  among  men.  You  know 
"Passion  and  Pot-Pourri,"  don't  you?  You 
remember  the  tale  of  the  millionairess  on  "One 
Libertine  Afternoon"?  "I  am  twenty-nine, 
you  know  ...  we  realise  that  not  only  shall  we 
love  again  .  .  .  but  .  .  .  again  and  again  .  .  . 
Love  passes  away  so  soon  ..."  she  said. 

Three-quarters  of  the  novels  are  based  on 
that,  and  one  dreads  lest  it  be  hideously  true. 
The  man  and  the  woman  are  kept  blind  by  our 
slave-mistress  until  she  has  achieved  her  object. 
They  are  attracted,  dazzled,  carried  away. 
They  even  drag  their  souls  in,  and  whisper  of 
God  and  eternity  in  the  half-lights.  A  far-off 
gramophone  sings  to  them  .  .  .  "God  gave  you 
me  .  .  ."as  they  sit  out  together  in  the  moon- 
light under  the  trees,  and  its  voice  is  clearer 
than  that  of  God  on  Sinai.  And  they  mate,  and 
later  wonder  why.  Of  course  the  amazing  thing 
is  that  no  man  in  love  will  believe  what  I  have 
just  written,  no  matter  how  many  times  he  has 
been  disillusioned;  and  if  he  believes  it  now 
because  he  is  not  in  love,  he  will  not  believe  it 
as  soon  as  he  is.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  my  dear, 


OF  THE  TEN  COMMANDMENTS        23 

I  do  not  believe  it  myself.  Or  do  I!  I  hardly 
know.  Up  here,  out  here,  I  see  the  iron  law 
as  clear  as  the  daylight,  but  if  I  believed  that 
there  was  no  more  in  love  than  this,  I  would 
wish  myself  dead ;  indeed,  I  think  I  would  curse 
God  and  die.  Amazing,  isn't  it?  And  quite 
possibly  that  is  all  another  trick! 

But  let  us  suppose,  now,  that  both  things  are 
true,  that  we  are  animal  enough  to  be  in  the 
grip  of  this  ravenous  beast  called  Nature  to  our 
own  deception  and  undoing,  but  spiritual 
enough  to  have  it  in  us  to  love  in  its  deep  sense 
as  well  as  lust.  Love  ^s  then  the  supreme 
achievement  of  life.  Let  us  not  fear  that,  for 
Love  is  of  God.  We  may  see  and  serve  God  in 
Love.  What  then?  Well,  Love  will  be  infinitely 
bigger  than  the  begetting  of  children,  though  it 
may  involve  that.  It  appears  to  me  that  Love 
might  quite  truly  not  wish  that,  although  it  is  so 
horribly  hard  to  disentangle  the  two,  as  a  con- 
sequence, if  not  as  an  aim.  But  is  it,  then,  to  be 
the  supreme  dictator  when  it  truly  comes,  burst- 
ing through  the  Ten  Commandments  of  social 
protection  with  a  snap  of  the  fingers? 

I  could  feel  so.  Take  the  seventh.  Here  are 
a  man  and  a  woman  trapped  by  Nature  into  a 
marriage  by  the  false  lights  of  what  was  pas- 
sion, but  which  they  once  thought  was  love.  And 
then  love  and  a  third  enter  in.  If  love  is,  indeed, 
the  supreme  achievement,  life  for  the  two  is  a 
barren,  wasted  thing,  and  for  the  third  it  will 


26  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

never  be  achieved,  if  they  keep  all  the  Com- 
mandments. 

There  seems  to  me  to  be  only  one  possible  line 
of  thought  if  one  would  escape  from  the  di- 
lemma, the  quagmire,  the  very  social  instabili- 
ties, into  which  the  abandonment  of  the  Com- 
mandments would  lead.  It  lies  in  the  frank 
recognition  that  love  won  or  thwarted,  happi- 
ness or  pain,  success  or  failure,  the  populating 
of  the  globe  or  the  cessation  of  human  life  upon 
it,  are  but  secondary  affairs  after  all.  They  are 
so  many  obstacles  in  the  race,  so  many  tem- 
porary furnishings  to  be  assessed  at  that  value. 
The  only  object  of  man's  existence  will  be  God. 
If  he  put  Nature  wholly  on  one  side,  like  the 
monk,  he  must  do  it  for  God;  if  he  submit  to 
Nature,  he  must  do  it  for  God.  If  he  hope  to 
walk  hand  in  hand  with  another  towards  that 
Goal,  good :  let  him  try  so  to  walk ;  but  he  must 
remember  that  to  reach  the  Goal  is  his  object, 
and  not  the  walking  hand  in  hand,  and  that,  if 
the  latter  prove  a  delusion,  he  must  go  on,  alas ! 
not  alone,  but  in  uncongenial  company. 

This  seems  a  hard  solution,  does  it  not? 
There  are  moods  in  which  I  can  feel  that  it  is 
not  as  hard  as  it  seems,  moods  in  which  I  can 
believe  that  God  alone  is  love.  Even  then  I 
am  not  a  believer  that  all  else  is  evil,  for  it  may 
be  that  we  find  other  things  in  God,  provided 
we  seek  Him  first,  and  understand  that,  if  we 
seem  to  lose  the  riches  of  life  for  His  sake,  they 


OF  THE  TEN  COMMANDMENTS        27 

are  not  really  lost  at  all.  But,  whatever  my 
mood,  I  am  certain  of  this — and  this  is  where 
I  feel  with  your  modern  novelists  and  the  pup- 
pets whose  strings  they  pull — such  a  solution 
must  have  more  authority  behind  it  than  the  un- 
supported law  of  Deuteronomy.  If  I  should  see 
God  and  hear  His  Voice  in  my  own  tongue  and 
age,  then  would  I  sacrifice  (if  He  asked  it)  even 
you  to  Him ;  but  if  not,  then  would  I  take  you 
in  my  arms  though  the  laws  of  Israel  and  of 
social  England  stood  twenty  times  as  strongly 
in  the  way,  though  I  dreaded  lest  jade  Nature 
mocked  at  me 


4.    OF  GOD  OR  ALLAH 

I  MUST  say  I  love  a  few  days  here  at  the 
store.  Mallont  is  such  a  good  feltew.  In 
a  way  he  reminds  me  of  many  of  the  boys  in 
the  War,  he  is  so  good-natured,  unselfish,  gen- 
erous, and  straight.  We  are  good  friends,  and 
yesterday,  when  the  store  closed,  we  took  rods 
and  walked  out  of  the  front  door  to  the  river, 
scarce  a  hundred  yards  away,  to  fish.  There 
is  a  wide,  deep  pool  just  behind  the  house,  with 
high  rocks  on  one  side,  and  I  sat  perched  up 
there  and  watched  the  sunset  glow  higher  up 
the  valley,  and  the  deepening  colours,  till,  as 
the  first  stars  came  out,  we  walked  back.  Sup- 
per was  ready  in  the  lighted  room,  but  we  stood 
for  a  few  minutes  on  the  stoep  in  the  deep 
silence.  There  is  little  water  in  the  river,  and 
it  simply  murmured  through  the  night  as  it  ran 
under  the  high  kraatzes  in  the  horse-shoe  bend 
in  which  the  store  stands.  On  the  unenclosed 
side  the  mountain  slopes  up  to  the  sky-line,  and 
there  a  high  wind  was  blowing  little  clouds 
across  the  face  of  the  moon. 

After  supper  we  sat  and  talked,  and  talked 
on  the  big  things,  too.  It's  a  strange  world! 
Here  is  Mallont,  right  out  of  civilisation,  and 

28 


OF  GOD  OR  ALLAH  29 

out  of  it  now  for  many  years,  an  independent, 
strong  man,  not  given,  one  would  think,  to 
making  concessions  to  propriety.  Yet  he  is 
ten  times  more  conventional  than  I.  He  accepts 
the  social  and  moral  order,  and  quite  admittedly 
without  what  I  should  call  a  principle  behind  it. 
I  tried  to  work  off  on  him  what  I  wrote  to  you 
the  other  day,  and  it  interested  him.  But  he 
was  quite  firm.  Leviticus,  he  was  sure,  had 
made  a  mistake  over  the  Deceased  Wife's 
Sister,  and  if  the  Church  condemned  Divorce  in 
toto,  at  whosoever 's  direction,  there  was  a  blun- 
der somewhere ;  but  until  divorce  had  been  ob- 
tained (and  it  was  much  better  not  sought)  a 
woman  was  apparently  the  private  property  of 
her  husband,  and  mistakes  should  be  endured 
without  rhyme  or  reason,  even  to  the  blighting 
of  two  lives. 

My  protest  led,  of  course,  easily  to  religion, 
and  we  discussed  all  kinds  of  things,  from  Con- 
fession to  the  Pope.  He  is  very  downright. 
"If  I  took  religion,"  he  said,  "I'd  go  the  whole 
way.  I  wouldn't  take  the  Sacrament  on  Sunday 
and  do  a  nigger  down  for  a  tikJci  on  Monday. 
But  I  don't  think  I  shall.  There  is  no  life  in  the 
Church,  and  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  that  religion 
makes  a  man  any  better.  My  creed  is,  'Do  to 
every  man  as  you  would  be  done  by,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  God.'" 

I  was  silent  for  a  while.  What  was  one  to 
say?  It  sounds  so  easy  in  the  theological  study, 


30  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

and  I  suppose  the  saintly  evangelical  fathers 
would  have  an  answer  ready.  It  was  the 
thought  of  them  that  made  me  put  a  question. 
"What  about  sin?"  I  said.  "If  you  feel  it  is 
too  great  a  thing  to  meet  a  forgiving  God  in 
Communion,  what  about  the  meeting  that's 
bound  to  come  at  the  end?  If  He  sent  His  Son 
and  made  a  plan  for  salvation,  how  will  you 
answer  Him  when  He  wants  to  know  why  you 
neglected  it?" 

He  flicked  the  ash  off  his  cigarette  and 
smiled.  "I  reckon  I  shall  say  that  /  never 
asked  to  be  put  into  this  world.  I  was  shoved 
in  unconsciously,  and  I  found  it  too  big  a  mud- 
dle for  me.  I  did  my  best ;  I  couldn't  do  more. " 

Now,  you  know,  there  is  a  challenge  in  that. 
"I  never  asked  to  be  put  into  this  world."  I 
wonder  what  you  think  of  that.  Again,  it's  an 
easy  question — or  an  easier  than  the  last — in 
the  study,  but  when  a  man  puts  it  to  you 
straight  and  wants  a  practical,  and  not  a  theo- 
logical, answer,  what  then?  It  seemed  to  me 
that  the  great,  silent,  enduring,  age-long  moun- 
tains all  about  waited  for  the  answer.  You 
cannot  talk  clap-trap  with  those  listeners. 
After  all,  has  God  the  right  to  make  a  man 
against  or  without  his  will?  A  man — a  thing  of 
brain  and  nerve  and  passion,  the  heir  of  cen- 
turies of  hereditary  impulse,  the  sport  of 
Nature,  the  slave  of  environment,  and  yet  the 
restless,  brooding,  masterful  being  that  is  half 


OF  GOD  OR  ALLAH  31 

a  God  himself — has  God  a  right  to  make  him 
without  his  wish,  and  will  He  have  the  right  to 
damn  him  because  he  has  blundered  and  found 
things  too  hard? 

"But  you  enjoy  life,"  I  said.  "Even  the 
fellow  most  to  be  pitied  rarely  wants  to  throw 
away  the  gift.  And  if  he  does,  owing  to  the 
misery  of  his  present  circumstances,  he  would 
admit  to  days  and  hours  of  too  high  value  for 
estimation.  And  if  you  had  a  child,  a  mere 
baby,  and  I  offered  to  x>lace  ten  thousand 
pounds  for  it  in  the  Bank,  to  accumulate  until 
it  was  twenty-one,  would  you  refuse  on  the 
ground  that  the  child  was  unconscious  of  so 
great  a  gift,  which  at  twenty-one  might  possibly 
bring  about  his  ruin?" 

"I  should  not,"  he  said.  "But  if  the  boy 
inherited  a  weakness  for  alcohol,  and  your  for- 
tune worked  his  ruin,  whose  fault  would  it  be  ?  " 

I  fear  I  nearly  gave  it  up,  but  then  I  had  an 
idea.  "It's  no  answer,"  I  said,  "but  it  seems 
to  me  that  what  is  really  wrong  with  your 
question  is  something  much  more  fundamental 
than  all  this.  You  have  a  wrong  idea  of  God, 
and  you  will  think  in  terms  of  Law  and  Com- 
mandment and  Punishment.  Almighty  God 
is  to  you  the  unattractive  Euler  of  the  Universe. 
He  is  all  but  Allah.  But  that  is  not  God  at  all. 
God  is  all  Goodness,  Love,  Beauty,  Manliness, 
Striving,  Joy,  Satisfaction,  Honour,  Attain- 
ment, Eeward.  If  you  could  see  Him,  you 


32  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

would  desire  Him  passionately.  It  will  be 
heaven  to  serve  Him  in  the  fulness  of  our  man- 
hood. If  you  refuse  Him,  He  will  not  damn 
you;  you  will  merely  deprive  yourself  of  all 
that  is  fine  and  good.  In  refusing  God  you  are 
refusing  all  that  you  like  in  any  man  you  hon- 
our, all  that  you  desire  in  any  woman  you  truly 
love.  He  has  made  no  rigid  commandments; 
He  has  set  you  no  hard  task ;  He  has  but  given 
you  life  that  you  may  run  to  Him,  and  He  has 
but  set  up  warning  sign-posts  lest  you  go 
astray." 

Mallont  nodded  silently.  "That's  fine,"  he 
said,  "but  what  would  the  Church  say  to  all 
that?" 

"The  Catholic  Church,"  said  I,  "is  the 
revelation  of  God.  So  was  Jesus  Christ,  and 
the  two  are  one.  In  her  you  can  see  Him." 

"Can  you?"  he  queried  sarcastically,  under- 
standing only  my  second  sentence,  I  think. 
"All  that  I  can  say  is  that  the  world  doesn't 
see  that,  and  I  have  never  heard  the  Church 
speak  as  you  spoke  just  now." 

And  I  too  was  silent  then  as  the  minutes 
passed.  Then,  with  a  flicker  of  passion, 
"Padre,  if  I  could  see  God's  Face  like  that,  He 
should  have  all  my  strength ! "  he  said. 

I  looked  at  him.  He  has  been  a  brick  to  me, 
tender  as  a  woman  once,  when  I  was  badly 
smashed  up  and  in  agony,  a  good  friend  always. 
He  and  I  know  little  of  each  other's  past,  for 


OF  GOD  OR  ALLAH  33 

men  do  not  often  confide  that,  and  possibly  we 
each  wonder  of  the  other  what  eddy  washed  us 
into  this  backwater  of  the  stream  of  life.  So 
I  know  very  little,  and  yet  I  think  I  judged 
aright  "Mallont,"  I  said,  "you  will  surely 
see  Him  one  day.  And  then  remember  me." 

Across  the  table  he  held  out  his  hand. 

*  #  *  *  # 

But,  my  dear,  am  I  right,  or  am  I  wrong,  and 
last,  but  not  least — for  it  involves  honour — am 
I  orthodox?  And  ought  I  to  sit  here  in  this 
uniform?  Oh,  that  you  could  give  me  an  an- 
swer !  There  are  times  when  I  hat e  these  silent 
mountains. 


5.    OF  WANTING  GOD 

I  WISH  you  could  see  me  now.  I  am  spread 
out  on  the  floor  of  a  mud  hut,  writing  by 
candle-light,  and  I  am  going  to  describe  the 
hut  minutely,  for  I  have  just  been  wandering 
around  taking  measurements.  It's  a  big  hut, 
round,  and  five  paces  in  diameter.  The  door 
is  nearly  six  feet  high,  and  the  top  of  the  roof 
perhaps  nine.  The  walls  are  of  stone  outside 
and  mud  within,  the  floor  stamped  mud,  the 
roof  smoke-blackened  thatch  and  poles.  There 
is  no  window,  no  chimney,  no  fireplace,  no  fix- 
tures, except  a  hole  in  the  mud  reaching  to  the 
stone,  about  two  feet  long  and  six  inches  wide, 
that  does  duty  as  a  small  shelf. 

Half  the  circle  of  the  wall  is  taken  up  with 
grain  bags;  next  to  them,  on  sacks,  is  a  dead 
sheep,  spread  out  and  skinned;  next  to  it  my- 
self, also  spread  out,  but  on  my  blankets  and 
valise,  and  writing  to  you;  next  to  me  are  my 
saddles — my  own,  Cyril's,  and  the  pack;  and 
next  to  them  is  the  door,  with  the  grain  starting 
again  beyond  it.  You  can  reach  the  top  of  the 
wall,  where  the  thatch  starts,  with  your  hand, 
and  this  makes  another  shelf,  while  the  roof 
poles  are  convenient  pegs.  Hanging  up,  then, 

34 


OF  WANTING  GOD  33 

or  stuck  into  the  thatch,  or  resting  on  the  shelf, 
are  various  objects:  skeins  of  grass  rope;  a 
broken  knife;  a  spoon;  a  Tower  musket,  very 
rusty;  a  collection  of  my  hostess's  skirts;  an 
old  military  coat;  two  spears;  a  goat-skin,  not 
very  completely  cured;  a  few  books,  very 
ragged;  empty  tins;  empty  bottles;  a  few  of 
the  same  with  unknown  and  unrecognisable  con- 
tents; a  pair  of  boots;  the  skin  of  a  dead  calf, 
tied  up  at  the  legs  to  make  a  sack;  a  woven 
grass  bag  of  native  tobacco;  a  gnarled  stick; 
an  ancient  umbrella;  and  a  decayed  toothbrush. 
And  then  there  is  the  furniture :  a  kitchen  chair, 
with  the  back  gone  and  one  leg  mended  with 
wire,  and  a  crucifix.  This,  my  dear,  is  a  true, 
literal,  and  veracious  description  of  my  present 
lodgings. 

In  the  train  coming  up  I  met  a  man  who  was 
deploring  the  high  cost  of  living.  I  told  him 
that  I  expected  to  live  on  about  £5  a  month 
for  the  next  six  months.  He  hardly  believed 
it,  but  it  is  true.  And,  after  all,  I  wonder  some- 
times why  one  does  not  remain  for  ever  as  I 
am  to-night.  It  is  quite  as  comfortable  in  this 
valise  on  the  floor  as  in  a  bed;  what  is  the  use 
of  a  dining-room  suite?  and  I  am  as  contented 
physically,  having  dined  off  mealiemeal  por- 
ridge, native  bread,  a  couple  of  chops  that  Cyril 
hacked  from  the  sheep  an  hour  ago,  and  tea, 
as  if  I  had  dined  in  the  Eoyal  Hotel,  Durban. 
Moreover,  this  hut  is  quite  clean,  and  so  am 


36  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

I,  really.  True,  I  could  do  with  a  wash,  but 
the  dirt  is  merely  clean  earth  dirt,  and  I'm 
shaved.  I  am,  really.  I  always  do.  And  if  my 
clothes  are  a  bit  old,  after  all,  they  answer  all 
practical  purposes. 

Yet  I  am  anything  but  content  in  my  soul. 
I  have  been  out,  wandering  up  and  down  under 
the  stars,  thinking,  thinking,  always  thinking, 
as  if  thinking  did  any  good.  My  mind  is  full 
of  the  sort  of  criticism  that  men  pour  out  on 
missions  and  on  religion  generally,  and  I  cannot 
get  away  from  it.  I  met  the  other  day  a  man 
back  from  the  War,  and  from  adventures  up  and 
down  India,  Egypt,  Palestine,  and  Mesopotamia. 
I  cannot  explain  exactly  why,  but  his  talk  hurts. 
He  had  seen  what  was  said  to  be  the  most 
debased  Christianity  in  the  world;  he  reckoned 
the  most  religious  people  were  undoubtedly 
Mohammedan:  what  Christians  get  up  regularly 
at  5  a.m.  to  say  their  prayers?  He  burst — or 
tried  to  burst — a  good  many  bubbles,  such  as 
Armenian  atrocities,  by  telling  story  after  story 
of  the  thievish,  murderous,  immoral  character 
of  the  Armenians  he  had  met;  and,  without 
saying  so,  he  gently  hinted  that  all  religions  or 
no  religion  were  much  of  a  muchness  provided 
a  man  played  the  game. 

Then  the  talk  veered  on  Spiritualism  and  the 
after-life,  which  is  debated  as  if  Christ  had 
never  risen  from  the  dead,  with  the  conclusion 
that  after  all  it  does  not  matter,  for  if  we  rise 


OF  WANTING  GOD  37 

from  the  'dead,  we  rise,  and  if  we  do  not,  we 
do  not,  and  it  will  not  matter  much  provided 
a  man  has — and  all  the  rest. 

I  wonder  if  you  can  guess  the  effect  all  this 
has  on  my  mind.  I  hardly  know  how  to  express 
it,  but  I  think  I  might  put  it  in  this  way.  The 
great  religious  problem  of  the  world  is  that 
modern  men  believe  that  they  have  proved  that 
they  can  get  on  quite  as  well  without  orthodox 
religion  as  with  it.  A  man  says  his  prayers; 
he  gives  up  saying  them;  and  there  is  no  differ- 
ence. He  lives  his  life;  he  has  his  pleasures, 
his  worries,  his  anxieties,  his  successes;  and 
Christ  has  no  place  in  them.  Your  modern  man 
does  not  want  Christ.  He  gets  on  perfectly  well 
without  Him. 

The  realisation  of  this  tears  me  to  pieces,  so 
to  speak.  I  ask  myself,  Who  is  to  blame — the 
Church,  the  man,  or  Christ?  Is  it  to  be  expected, 
and  if  so,  why?  And  up  against  it  is  the  fact 
that  the  native  finds  a  use  for  religion,  and 
as  for  me,  well,  I  am  a  man  too,  and  I  cannot 
get  away  from  it. 

The  native  wants  religion.  Some  say  it  does 
not  improve  him;  some  say  he  wants  it  merely 
to  get  on;  some  say  he  pretends  to  want  it  to 
cheat  us;  but  all  that  is  rubbish.  The  last  two 
sentences  may  be  true  of  some;  the  first  may 
be  true  of  more,  and  even  of  many  in  the  sense 
in  which  it  is  used,  for  it  comes  to  mean  that 
religion  tends  to  spoil  a  native  from  the  white 


38  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

man's  point  of  view:  it  makes  him  less  subser- 
vient, less  slavish  in  his  estimation  of  himself, 
less  satisfied  with  having  small  prospects  and  no 
racial  future.  And  all  power  to  his  elbow  there ! 
I  say  frankly. 

But  the  native  wants  religion.  A  man  will 
not  pay,  suffer,  labour,  for  a  thing  he  does  not 
want.  Not  all,  of  course,  do  these  things  for 
religion,  but  many  do,  and  more  would  if  we 
missionaries  did  not  tend  to  spoon-feed  them. 
And  for  myself,  I  honestly  believe  it  is  just  due 
to  this :  the  soul  of  the  native  is  being  awakened, 
and  a  soul  awakened  turns  naturally  to  God. 

The  trouble  with  your  white  man  is  twofold. 
In  the  first  place,  he  does  few  things  naturally, 
and  least  of  all  his  thinking.  He  no  longer 
grows  like  a  flower  and  opens  up  to  the  sun.  He 
starts  so  as  a  child,  but  then  conventions,  and 
civilisations,  and  other  people's  ideas,  and  the 
realisation  of  his  mastery  of  so  much,  come  in, 
and  he  ceases  to  be  natural.  If  the  stars  and 
the  mountains  and  the  spring  cry  to  him  of  God, 
he  says  to  himself:  " Don't  be  a  fool — remember 
Evolution,  Science,  Darwin";  and  he  pours  him- 
self out  a  whisky  and  soda  instead  of  falling  on 
his  knees.  If  he  falls  in  love,  he  keeps  a  tight 
hand  on  himself  unless  the  prospects  are  good, 
and  he  gratifies  his  passion  in  the  meantime 
with  precaution.  He  is  born  a  child  still,  but 
he  is  made  a  cynic. 

But  the  one  thing  that  might  save  him  is  not 


OF  WANTING  GOD  39 

there.  Oh,  my  dear,  why  is  it  that  the  living 
Christ,  the  power  of  the  Spirit,  the  passion  of 
God  for  souls,  never  seize  on  him  and  rock  his 
soul  to  its  foundation  till  he  cries  out:  "Depart 
from  me!"  or  else  "Inflame  me!"  one  or  the 
other,  but  either  in  an  agony?  Why  is  it  that 
he  does  not  feel  the  hand  of  this  terrible  God 
of  ours  in  all  its  relentless  power?  Why  is  it 
that  he  does  not  either  surrender  entirely  or 
sin  daringly?  Why  is  it  that  he  is  such  a 
craven — for  it  comes  to  that — such  a  slave  both 
in  his  petty  sins  and  in  his  arm-chair  disbeliefs  ? 
Well,  I  will  tell  you:  it  is  because  of  me,  and 
of  such  as  me,  and  because  we  have  allowed  the 
supernatural  in  religion  to  drop  out  of  count. 
We  have  set  ourselves  a  low  standard,  for  we 
are  content  to  be  saved.  To  put  it  theologically, 
as  long  as  we  feel  we  are  in  a  position  to  be 
"justified"  at  the  last  day,  sanctification  does 
not  matter  much.  We  live  moderately  within 
the  law,  and  go  to  Church,  and  take  the  Sacra- 
ments, but  we  do  not  fling  our  whole  souls,  like 
reckless  gamblers,  into  the  attainment  of  God. 
We  do  not  want  to  lose  our  lives  that  we  may 
find  them.  My  friend  is  perfectly  right  in  a 
way  even  over  his  Mohammedans.  There  are, 
of  course — I  know  it — plenty  of  Christians  who 
get  up  at  5  a.m.  to  say  their  prayers;  but  the 
majority  do  not.  We  are  content  if  we  say  them 
at  all.  We  have  whittled  everything  down  to 
the  finest  edge  of  distinction  between  our  miser- 


40  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

able  Christianity  and  paganism,  and  it  is  only 
we  who  can  see  the  line  of  demarcation  at  all. 
The  world  at  large  never  dreams,  from  observa- 
tion of  us,  that  the  Beatitudes  are  the  ideals 
of  the  religion  of  Christian  men  any  longer. 

We  Catholics  are  worse  than  the  Protestants. 
After  all,  Catholicism  is  far  more  an  obviously 
supernatural  religion  than  Protestantism,  and 
it  is  far  more  other-worldly.  It  is  only  a 
"rational"  faith  at  all  provided  you  accept  first 
an  hypothesis  of  faith.  The  Catholic  Sacra- 
ments are  daring  and  daily  claims  to  be 
miracles,  the  practice  of  the  ordinary  Catholic 
faith  a  commonplace  assertion  of  the  reality  of 
the  other  world.  Protestantism  might  be  made 
other-worldly;  it  was  by  the  Quakers  and  the 
Puritans  (although  their  presentation  of  things 
was  not  a  good  advertisement  of  that  other 
world) ;  but  modern  Protestantism  at  any  rate, 
with  its  educational  basis  of  an  intelligent  read- 
ing of  difficult  MSS.  and  its  Jewish  synagogue 
worship,  wears  no  such  dress.  I  never,  there- 
fore, blame  the  average  Englishman  for  his 
materialistic  outlook,  any  more  than  one  can 
blame  a  modern  society  child  for  not  believing 
in  fairies  and  Father  Christmas.  The  English- 
man honestly  thinks  that  the  belief  in  survival 
either  rests  on  a  dubious  and  ancient  account 
of  Our  Lord's  Resurrection,  or  on  Spiritualism, 
instead  of  which  it  rests  for  the  Catholic  on  the 
knowledge  that  the  risen  Jesus  is  to  hand  in 


OF  WANTING  GOD  41 

the  Tabernacle  on  the  altar  of  every  church  and 
has  been  actually  seen  in  every  age,  down  to 
last  year,  by  His  disciples. 

But  to  come  back  to  my  point:  I  am  so  dread- 
fully conscious  that  I  do  not  live  as  if  I  believed 
this,  and  that  I  do  not  spend  my  days  in  a  real 
attempt  to  see  God  for  myself.  All  that  aban- 
don, passion,  madness,  heroism,  of  the  Saints, 
belongs  solely  to  the  Saints.  But  I  ought  to 
show  it.  Why,  then,  do  I  no  c? 

Ah,  the  sorrowful  answer!  " Suffer  me  first 
to  go  and  bury  my  father!"  "He  went  away 
grieved  because  he  had  great  possessions!" 
Thank  God,  my  dear,  that  it  was  not  you  who 
had  a  hand  in  writing  such  sentences  of  doom 
across  my  life!  But  it  is  that,  is  it  not?  and 
with  most  of  us.  Do  you  know,  I  am  so  con- 
scious of  it  up  here  on  the  Berg.  I  trek  up 
and  go  to  the  Store.  I  am  full  of  zeal  when 
I  arrive.  At  the  Store  I  do  not  deny  Christ, 
of  course,  but  I,  too,  whittle  things  down  to  the 
fine  edge.  No  one  would  call  the  Store  luxury, 
but  it  is  by  contrast  to  this  hut  and  my  life 
in  this  hut.  There  I  have  food  on  a  white  cloth 
and  plenty  of  tools  to  eat  it  with,  there  a  cup 
of  tea  and  a  cigarette  before  breakfast  several 
mornings  a  week,  there  novels  and  a  sun-downer 
and  a  chat  with  good  old  Mallont.  It  is  all 
right;  I  am  still  "justified."  But  then  I  come 
out  to  the  native  village.  I  am  a  priest  all  the 
time;  in  weariness,  painfulness,  hunger,  thirst, 


42  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

and  even  boredom,  I  do  serve  God;  I  become 
poor  and  live  the  life  of  my  "brethren"  that 
I  come  to  save.  At  first  I  have  to  make  an 
effort  to  do  it,  and  then  it  fits  like  a  glove.  And 
then — well,  and  then  I  have  to  trek  away  from 
the  Berg,  and  I  get  down  to  the  fine  edges  again, 
and,  God  forgive  me,  I  am  glad.  That's  the 
rub:  I  am  glad.  You  see,  there  is  no  stuff  of 
saintship  there. 

The  other  day  I  debated  with  Mallont  whether 
the  "sporting  parson"  did  more  good  than  the 
other  sort.  Of  course  it  was  an  absurd  debate, 
for  Mallont  could  take  no  real  part  in  it,  having 
never  met  the  other  sort  of  parson  that  I  had 
in  my  mind.  I  suppose  he  has  met  rather 
reserved,  gentlemanly,  conventional  English 
curates,  but  I  do  not  mean  them.  From  his 
point  of  view,  then,  the  sporting  parson  won 
every  time.  He  gave  me  a  dozen  stories  of  such, 
men  whose  cheeriness  and  good  comradeship, 
coupled  with  genuine  religion,  had  made  men 
feel  in  club  or  bar  that  the  Church  had  grit  and 
manliness,  that  it  was  not  an  affair  of  stage 
curates  and  Mothers'  Meetings,  to  be  precise. 
He  maintained  that  all  that  was  to  the  good, 
and  so  it  is  up  to  a  point.  But  is  that  the 
Church  ?  Do  you  suppose  that  the  Apostle  Paul, 
or  Simon  Stylites,  or  Francis  Xavier,  or  the 
Cure  d'Ors  made  men  feel  that  the  Church  was 
cheerful,  companionable,  manly?  It  seems  to 
me  that  they  made  them  feel  very  differently 


OF  WANTING  GOD  43 

towards  it — either  that  it  was  a  great  Enemy 
that  the  World  should  crucify  or  the  Gate  to 
that  Lord  for  Whom  one  would  gladly  be  cruci- 
fied. 

And,  of  course,  although  I  am  not  going  to 
labour  the  point,  the  Catholicism  of  modern 
Home,  or  any  form  of  the  Christian  religion  that 
is  approximately  like  it,  comes  nearest  to-day 
to  doing  that.  It  is  curious,  too,  that  I  put  down 
the  four  saints  above  exactly  as  they  struck  me 
at  the  moment,  types  of  that  extravagant  aban- 
donment of  everything  for  God  that  is  saintship. 
And  the  last  two  of  that  spiritual  brotherhood 
are  Eoman  Catholic,  and  the  first  two  are 

Of  course,  if  you  finish  that  sentence,  you  tend 
to  settle  a  big  question,  but  even  so  it  leaves  me 
with  my  main  argument,  that  men  to-day  do 
not  want  God  because  so  few  of  us,  even 
Catholics,  are  those  living  epistles  of  Him  that 
St.  Paul  talks  about. 


6.    OF  A  SUNDAY  IN  THE  MISSION 

'THHE  river  flows  very  swiftly  round  great 
boulders  at  the  foot  of  a  mountain,  and 
you  cross  the  swirling  water,  pick  your 
way  round  a  shoulder,  climb  over  a  little  crest, 
and  find  yourself  on  a  plateau  in  a  cleft  that 
is  cut  out  between  two  foot-hills  of  the  moun- 
tain itself.  Is  that  at  all  clear?  I  suppose  it 
is  not,  but  let  me  put  it  this  way.  If  you  stand 
at  the  little  church  door,  you  look  out  on  a 
sloping  but  comparatively  flat  plateau  with 
exactly  six  houses  scattered  about,  anything 
from  one  to  three  hundred  yards  from  you. 
From  your  feet  the  slope  runs  down  to  a  tiny 
stream,  very  gay  with  gladioli  and  other  wild 
flowers  in  summer,  that  rushes  swiftly  down  and 
down  to  the  wild  river  below.  Left  and  right 
of  the  plateau  the  hills  rise  sharply  up  and  close 
you  in,  but  they  themselves  are  only  spurs 
thrust  out  from  the  mountain  mass.  Behind,  a 
valley  rises  ever  more  steeply  out  of  sight.  In 
front,  across  the  river,  is  a  great  chain  of  moun- 
tains that  runs  north  and  south  and  hems  you 
in,  but  gives  you  a  wide-stretching  view  first. 
Six  houses  and  the  little  church — that  is  all. 
Even  with  a  glass  you  can  hardly  see  more 

44 


OF  A  SUNDAY  IN  THE  MISSION        45 

villages,  but  at  sundown  there  are  thin  wisps 
of  blue  smoke  rising  in  pillars  against  the  rocks 
and  grass  from  the  hidden  clusters  of  huts  all 
the  way  along  the  range  before  you. 

Yesterday  was  Sunday,  and  such  a  day!  I 
finished  by  baptising  twenty-six  babies  at  a 
service  that  would  have  taken  a  bishop's  breath 
away.  Eeally  I  had  done  my  best  to  get  it 
properly  arranged,  and  the  bewildered  catechist 
did  present  me  with  some  pages  torn  from  an 
old  exercise  book  on  which  were  written  up  and 
down,  more  or  less  unintelligibly,  the  names  of 
parents,  villages,  babies,  and  sponsors;  but  he 
had  allowed  every  one  to  crowd  into  the  church, 
and  I  could  not  sort  out  the  babies  from  the 
other  children,  or  arrange  the  godparents 
handily,  or  anything  else.  I  did  try.  I 
clamoured  for  the  first  father  whose  name  ap- 
peared on  the  paper,  and  several  took  up  the 
cry  till  we  were  told  that  he  was  dead.  I  queried 
the  second  baby's  name,  which  was  put  down 
as  "Idlet,"  and  got  them  to  let  me  choose  a 
Christian  name,  and  I  refused  point-blank  to 
baptise  a  boy  Abednego.  But  after  that  I  gave 
it  up,  and  began.  I  was  hot  and  tired  and  a  bit 
angry,  until  in  the  middle  of  the  actual  chris- 
tening I  had  a  sudden  vision  of  the  beauty  of  it 
all.  There  was  the  mud  and  stone  church,  with 
its  mud  altar  in  the  apse,  with  crucifix  and  two 
candles  and  nothing  else  at  all,  for  we  have  no 
frontal  or  hangings  or  pictures  here,  owing  to 


46  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

the  difficulty  of  getting  them  up.  On  it  was  a 
tin  wash-hand  basin  full  of  water,  and  behind 
some  sacks  of  Kaffir  corn  and  a  huge  pile  of 
yellow  mealies,  harvest-festival  offerings.  The 
harvest  was  months  ago,  and  the  grain  was  not 
there  to  decorate  the  chancel,  but  just  because 
it  was  not  yet  sold,  and  there  was  nowhere  else 
to  put  it.  All  about  me,  crowding  up  the  apse, 
were  mothers  and  howling  babies,  some  being 
suckled,  some  naked,  some  clothed;  and  all 
about  the  mothers,  and  absolutely  packing  the 
church,  were  the  people  of  the  congregation. 
I  stood  there  baptising;  Cyril  held  my  book; 
another  the  bason  when  the  child  was  a  bit  too 
big  to  lift;  and  the  catechist  called  them  up, 
fluttering  his  absurd  sheets  of  paper.  There 
was  not  one  single  scrap  of  propriety  or  ec- 
clesiasticism  or  decorum  about  it.  Babies  were 
thrust  at  me;  and  I  seized  them,  baptised  them, 
and  handed  them  back.  We  disputed  about 
names  and  ages  during  the  service,  just  as  the 
need  occurred.  Ever  the  packed  mass  hemmed 
us  in.  And  yet,  as  I  say,  I  had  that  vision  in 
the  middle  of  it  all,  and  I  felt  like  a  primitive 
apostle  in  the  catacombs  and  a  father  among  his 
simple,  homely  people. 

The  Prayer  Book?  No,  I  fear  you  would  not 
have  recognised  it.  Do  you  think  I  could  pos- 
sibly have  begun,  "Dearly  Beloved,  forasmuch 
.  .  ."  and  so  on?  No,  I  just  began  like  this: 
"Now  then,  my  people,  be  quiet,  all  of  you, 


OF  A  SUNDAY  IN  THE  MISSION        47 

What  have  we  come  here  for  to-day?  eh?  What? 
Come  on  now,  somebody  tell  me."  (A  voice 
from  a  big  fellow  holding  a  baby)  "To  wash 
our  children  from  their  sins,  oh,  Father." 

"Quite  right,  and  mind  you  pray  for  them 
all  the  time,  and  now  I  will  get  on  with  it." 

The  babies  made  too  much  noise  for  any  one 
to  hear  many  of  the  prayers,  but,  to  my  surprise, 
they  all  took  up  the  sponsors '  answers  and 
thundered  them  like  a  ragged  roll  among  the 
hills,  and  they  all  recognised  the  ritual.  Each 
little  group  murmured  fervent  "Amens"  as 
their  babies  were  "washed."  And  when  the 
last  was  done,  I  said — or  almost  shouted — "Now 
then,  kneel  down,  all  of  you.  One  'Our  Father ' 
and-^one  'Hail  Mary'  for  the  babies,  and  the 
'Divine  Praises'  in  thanksgiving,  and  I  will 
give  you  the  Blessing." 

The  offering  at  Baptism  is  conventionally  a 
shilling.  One  man  hesitated  before  he  paid 
me  for  his  two  kiddies  and  demanded:  "What 
do  the  people  give  down  in  the  lowlands  where 
the  father  lives?" 

"One  shilling  each  child,"  said  I. 

"Yes,  but  the  father  has  come  four  days' 
journey  to  reach  us.  Will  he  please  take  this  ? ' ' 
he  answered,  and  put  two  half-crowns  into  my 
hand. 

I  am  utterly  ashamed  that  I  let  the  natives 
get  on  my  nerves  so  often  and  irritate  me,  or 
that  I  lie  in  my  blankets  at  six  in  the  morning 


48  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

and  dread  getting  np,  for  really,  at  bottom,  this 
is  just  an  example  of  tlieir  simplicity  and  guile- 
lessness.  Cyril  was  selling  crosses  and  medals 
outside  the  church  at  midday,  and  when  he 
came  to  me,  and  I  counted  up  what  remained,  I 
found  he  had  given  me  three  shillings  too  much. 
"What's  this,  Cyril?"  I  asked.  "From  whom 
hast  thou  been  stealing  three  shillings?" 

He  smiled,  and  proceeded  to  lay  out  the  coins. 
"This  shilling,  Father,"  he  said,  "is  from  a 
man  to  whom  the  father  sold  a  cross  at  Christ- 
mas last  year,  and  he  had  no  money  then;  two 
tikkis  from  two  women  who  took  medals  and 
had  no  money  last  time  the  father  was  here 
(five  months  before) ;  and  eighteen-pence  for  a 
rosary  which  a  woman  took  who  is  now  dead, 
and  she  left  the  money  with  her  husband." 
Now  I  had  completely  forgotten  to  whom  I  had 
given  credit,  or,  indeed,  that  I  had  done  so 
at  all.  There  is  such  a  rush  during  the  few 
days  I  can  be  here  that  I  do  forget  these  things. 
And  can  you  beat  this  for  simplicity  and 
honesty? 

Or  take  another  incident.  As  I  got  to  the 
church  door  in  the  early  morning  I  found  two 
women  sitting  at  it  with  black  handkerchiefs 
embroidered  with  a  large  white  cross  on  their 
heads.  One  had  come  two  and  a  half  hours  to 
be  there.  I  remembered  them,  penitents,  to 
whom  I  had  assigned  this  penance.  I  asked  for 
the  book  and  saw  their  record.  Sunday  by 


OF  A  SUNDAY  IN  THE  MISSION        49 

Sunday  all  through  the  winter,  in  snow  and 
frost  and  wind,  they  had  been  there  at  the 
church  door  in  accordance  with  my  direction. 
Mind,  that  penance  was  a  real  shame  to  them. 
Is  not  this  penitence  ? 

Or  again,  after  the  Baptism,  I  sat  outside  in 
an  old  Burberry  and  heard  cases.  The  child- 
like simplicity  of  them  passes  words.  A  father 
brought  his  daughter,  who  had  run  off  to  a 
circumcision  school  and  came  weeping.  This 
man  had  "stolen"  a  girl — which  means  run  off 
with  her  before  the  cattle  were  paid — and  came 
to  tell  me  so  and  get  his  punishment.  This 
couple  had  a  daughter-in-law  married  to  their 
son,  and  after  one  month  ("It  was  only  one 
month,  Father")  he  died  of  the  sickness; 
couldn't  they  marry  her  to  his  brother?  There 
was  a  baby  coming,  and  if  they  sent  her  back, 
they  lost  the  cattle  they  had  paid,  and  they  had 
no  more  to  buy  a  wife  for  the  next  son,  the 
brother.  Also  she  could  only  marry  the  brother 
by  native  law,  as  I  well  knew.  But  I  could  only 
give  one  possible  judgment.  They  shook  their 
whitening  heads:  the  law  of  God  was  a  hard, 
hard  law. 

I  was  glad  then  that  I  had  spoken  as  I  did 
at  mass.  Such  a  mass !  There  were  sixty-three 
confessions  to  hear  first  and  sixty-three  com- 
munions to  give,  and  the  little  church  was 
packed  in  one  big  jam  with  many  more  outside. 
Where  they  all  come  from,  I  never  can  imagine. 


50  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

The  service  would  have  sent  a  ritualist  off  his 
head.  Cyril  led  them  in  prayers,  while  I  said 
the  Preparation  and  Introit  with  the  catechist. 
Then  I  thought  they  had  better  have  the  Ten 
Commandments  to-day  (you  see,  I  had  heard 
sixty-three  confessions),  and  so  I  said,  turning 
to  them,  "I'm  going  to  read  the  Commandments 
to-day.  Mind  you  join  in  the  responses. 9 '  Then 
I  read,  not  your  Prayer  Book  Commandments, 
but  the  Commandments  truly  in  the  vulgar 
tongue,  such  as  "Thou  shalt  work  six  days,  but 
keep  Sunday  and  Holy  Days  holy  to  God,"  and 
so  on. 

Collect,  Epistle,  and  Gospel — well,  it  was  a 
Sunday  after  Trinity,  and,  to  be  honest,  I  did 
not  think  the  poor  souls  would  understand  much 
of  St.  Paul  to  the  Eomans  or  find  the  Collect 
very  helpful.  Besides,  they  only  have  mass 
about  three  times  a  year.  So  I  said  a  votive 
mass  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  which  is  simple, 
especially  as  I  explained  Epistle  and  Gospel 
after  or  before  reading  them.  And  then  the 
Creed,  for  we  want  our  heathen  to  hear  the 
Creed,  and  then  I  preached. 

I  said  they  had  come  to  renew  the  Covenant 
which  God  had  made  with  them  in  Baptism.  In 
Baptism  they  had  been  made  His,  put  under  His 
law,  welcome  to  His  love.  Basutoland  was  no 
longer  their  country,  for  their  land  was  Heaven; 
we  were  neither  Basuto  nor  English,  but 
Catholics.  They  had  given  up  heathenism  and 


OF  A  SUNDAY  IN  THE  MISSION       51 

its  customs  and  laws  and  taken  God's,  and  in 
return  He  had  made  them  His  Children  and 
People.  Their  lips  had  consented  to  that  agree- 
ment. And  now,  Jesus  was  coming  to  them, 
and  He  would  say,  "Do  you  still  mean  all  you 
said?  Then  see,  I  seal  your  lips  with  My  Blood, 
and  I  give  you  My  Body  as  a  sign  that  I  trust 
you  and  accept  you." 

Then  I  told  them  to  watch  while  I  made  the 
oblations,  and  while  they  sang  a  well-known 
hymn  to  our  Lady  I  offered  the  bread  and  the' 
wine  and  water  to  God.  Then  Cyril  led  them 
in  prayers,  till  I  cried  the  age-long  "Lift  up 
your  hearts"  as  Paul  cried  in  Eome,  or  Augus- 
tine to  his  first  English  converts.  They  all  sang 
the  "Holy,  Holy,  Holy,"  and  the  "Blessed  is 
He  that  cometh  in  the  Name  of  the  Lord,"  and 
by  this  time  I  was  naming  the  majesty  of 
apostles  and  martyrs  in  the  Canon,  all  but 
silently,  of  course.  But  I  heard  Cyril 's  whisper : 
"Bow  your  heads!  He  is  coming!"  and  then, 
as  the  bells  rang  thrice  and  thrice  again,  "Jesus 
is  here — His  Body  and  His  Blood  lies  on  the 
Altar!"  And  then,  while  I  prayed  on  and  on, 
remembering  Abraham,  Melchisedec,  and  Abel, 
praying  for  the  Christian  dead,  begging  that 
we  might  be  included  among  the  triumphant 
virgin  saints,  and  finally  breaking  the  unbroken 
Body  and  mingling  the  cup  of  sacrifice,  Cyril 
led  them  again  in  the  simple  prayers  I  have 
taught  them: 


52  PILGRIM   PAPERS 

"0  good  Jesu,  I  believe  that  Thou  art  here! 

0  good  Jesu,  I  worship  Thee  in  the  Sacra- 
ment; 

0  good  Jesu,  have  mercy  on  me ; 

O  good  Jesu,  forgive  me  my  sins ; 

0  good  Jesu,  receive  my  soul  in  the  hour 

of  my  death"; 
and  so  on. 

At  the  Communion  I  had  that  vision  again. 
They  crowded  up,  kneeling  all  around  me,  poor, 
ignorant,  rough  souls,  but  understanding  only 
that  in  some  mysterious  way  I  gave  them  Jesus, 
the  hope  of  life  and  death,  and  bowing  them- 
selves to  the  mud  floor  as  they  received.  And 
the  packed  church  sang  uncouthly,  but  so  truly, 
the  "Agnus  Dei/'  "0  Salutaris  Hostia,"  and 
"Tantum  ergo  Sacr amentum." 

Well,  that  is  only  typical  of  Sundays  here. 
They  raise  me  to  heaven,  and  they  cast  me  down 
to  earth.  It  was  wonderful ;  yes,  it  was.  Despite 
all  the  weakness,  sin,  falling  away,  and  so  on, 
which  I  know  much  better  than  the  white  man 
who  tells  you  Missions  are  a  failure,  it  was 
wonderful.  But — forgive  me — it  was  not  An- 
glican nor  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  nor  yet 
was  it  the  Catholicism  of  Borne.  Both  those 
things  worry  me.  It  is  all  very  well,  but  I  am 
a  minister  of  the  reformed  Church  of  England, 
and  I  have  sworn  to  the  Thirty-nine  Articles 
and  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer.  Well,  I  do 
more  than  go  behind  them  and  override  them. 


OF  A  SUNDAY  IN  THE  MISSION        53 

You  say  that  up  here,  in  these  mountains,  with 
a  kindly,  sympathetic  bishop,  it  does  not  mat- 
ter; but  it  does.  I  have  a  conscience,  and  it 
was  I  who  took  those  vows.  The  Church  of 
England  may  one  day  be  different  from  what 
it  is ;  it  may,  for  all  I  know,  one  day  be  Eoman 
Catholic;  but  it  is  not  so  now.  Meantime  I 
am  an  accredited  ambassador  sent  out  with  a 
mission,  and  I  disown  my  credentials  and  have 
set  aside  my  papers.  That,  it  seems  to  me,  is 
what  Almighty  God  sees. 

Secondly,  there  are  the  people.  I  feel  daily 
ithat  I  betray  them.  They  go  from  me  to  other 
iAnglican  churches,  to  the  denial  of  what  I  have 
taught  them,  to  confusion  and  heresy,  and  worse. 
Only  the  other  day,  down  below  the  Berg,  I 
was  asked  to  address  a  school  about  our  Lady 
and  the  Saints,  because  at  the  church  the 
children  must  needs  attend  they  had  been  told 
publicly  that  our  Lady  was  not  in  heaven  and 
could  not  pray  for  them.  Only  the  other  day 
a  boy  of  mine  came  back  to  me,  and,  after  a 
mass,  came  up  questioning: 

"Is  the  bread  made  into  the  Body  of  Jesus, 
Father?" 

"Yes," 'I  said.  "Haven't  I  always  taught 
you  so?" 

"The  father  has,"  he  said;  "but  Mr. at 

said  we  mustn't  kneel  on  our  knee  before 

we  go  up  to  receive,  for  that  would  be  wor- 
shipping bread." 


54  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

Of  course  there  are  far  better  men  than  I  who 
satisfy  themselves  that  to  go  on  as  I  go  on  is 
right;  and  I  do  not  judge  them.  I  think  I  am 
learning  gradually  not  to  judge  any  one,  how- 
ever apparently  wrong  I  may  think  them. 
Things  are  too  complex,  my  dear.  So  with  these 
Anglican  priests:  to  them  their  Orders  and 
Sacraments  are  beyond  doubt,  and  for  difficul- 
ties about  the  Church  they  are  content  to  wait. 
Jesus  comes  to  the  altar  at  their  word  and  under 
their  hand,  they  believe,  and  that  is  enough. 
Well,  to  their  own  Master  they  must  give  ac- 
count. I,  personally,  have  never  felt  this  a 
conclusive  argument,  and  it  seems  to  me  that 
I  have  been  sent  to  a  place  in  which  a  man 
might  feel  the  argument  as  strongly  as  possible, 
perhaps  in  order  more  definitely  to  repudiate  it. 
If  any  man  ever  felt  that  his  people  had  been 
fed  with  the  Bread  of  Life  at  his  hands  and 
depended  upon  him,  I  do,  and  such  dependent 
children  they  are,  too.  But  they  are  not  mine, 
they  are  God's,  and  however  much  I  might  wish 
to,  I  cannot  take  upon  myself  the  responsibility 
of  shepherding  them  without  authority.  I  may 
even  be  standing  between  them  and  God,  for 
if  I  were  not  here,  that  would  be  one  conflicting 
voice  at  least  the  less. 

But  that  is  not  the  point.  I  told  you  these 
Betters  would  be  by  way  of  an  apologia,  nothing 
trig  or  wise — for  I  cannot  pretend  to  that — but 
still  the  apologia  of  a  soul.  And  this  is  what 


OF  A  SUNDAY  IN  THE  MISSION        55 

I  would  say  very  solemnly  to  you,  that  I  fear 
one  day,  if  I  make  no  move,  that  I  may  have 
to  stand  before  the  throne  of  the  Truth  having 
sworn  to  a  profession  of  Faith  which  I  had 
ceased  to  believe  but  did  not  honestly  repudiate. 


7.    OF  MISUNDERSTANDINGS 

ONCE  upon  a  time  a  sub-inspector  of 
Government  Police,  a  trader,  and  a  mis- 
sionary foregathered  not  so  many  miles 
from  where  I  am  at  present,  and,  in  the  course 
of  conversation,  discussed  the  character  of  the 
native.  The  policeman  remarked  sardonically 
that  a  few  years  hearing  cases  in  the  police 
court  gave  one  the  true  picture  and  would  do 
much  to  correct  some  people's  ideas.  The 
trader  said  that,  on  the  contrary,  he  was  the 
best  judge,  for  whereas  the  policeman  saw  the 
dull  rogues  (who  got  caught),  he  saw  the  clever 
(who  did  not),  but  that  he  supposed  the  mis- 
sionary, if  he  kept  his  eyes  open,  would  see 
the  most  clever,  because  he  would  see  those  who 
set  out  to  cheat  God.  And  at  that  the  missionary 
upped  and  defended  his  people,  as  he  was  bound 
to  do,  and  the  usual  talk  of  mission-spoiled  na- 
tives and  "rice  Christians"  followed. 

But  it  is  not  easy  to  decide  who  sees  most 
of  the  true  native  character.  Of  course  the 
priest  abroad  may  easily  be  blinded,  just  as  he 
is  often  blinded  at  home.  Natives,  like  other 
people,  naturally  put  on  their  best  graces  with 
their  best  clothes  when  he  is  about.  But,  for 

56 


OF  MISUNDERSTANDINGS  57 

all  that,  it  is  equally  true  that  the  trader  has 
not  quite  the  vantage  point  for  judgment  that 
he  thinks  he  has.  He  sees  the  man  of  many 
flocks  who  comes  to  sell  his  wool,  but  it  is  still 
true  of  our  Christians,  as  it  was  of  St.  Paul's 
at  Corinth,  that  there  are  not  many  rich.  And 
if  they  are  rich,  they  are  usually  feeble  Chris- 
tians, as  the  missionary  knows  well  enough. 
Personally,  I  cannot  recall  one  really  rich,  faith- 
ful Christian  on  the  Berg,  by  "rich"  meaning 
the  kind  of  native  who  will  get  £100  to  £150 
for  his  wool  at  the  store  in  one  selling.  Then, 
again,  of  these,  as  of  lesser  customers,  the  trader 
sees  the  worst  side.  He  sees  the  native  when 
he  is  dealing  with  that  alien  thing,  money,  and 
when,  moreover,  he  is  out  to  fight  the  white 
man  who  makes,  he  supposes  in  his  ignorance, 
inordinate  profits.  Nor  is  it  always  ignorance. 
White  men  do  make  a  good  thing  of  trading, 
and  the  native  has  had  ground  to  be  suspicious 
and  uncivil  at  the  scales  before  now.  And  in 
in  any  case  money  brings  out  the  worst  in  black 
and  white. 

On  that  occasion,  however,  all  three  judges 
agreed  in  one  particular  at  least,  that  the  longer 
you  lived  among  the  natives,  the  more  you  felt 
that  you  did  not  understand  them.  The  mis- 
sionary, who  had  spent  sixteen  years  among 
them,  was  as  sure  of  this  as  the  others.  He 
said  that  some  few  years  after  he  came  out, 
when  he  had  mastered  the  language  and 


58  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

travelled  a  good  deal  among  the  villages,  lie 
felt  he  really  knew  the  minds  of  the  people,  but 
that  ever  since  he  had  been  unlearning  that  first 
impression.  He  said  he  had  known  the  most 
faithful  lapse  suddenly  without  apparent  cause 
or  any  fresh  additional  temptation.  He  had 
heard  the  most  intelligent  develop  a  line  of 
argument  and  stick  to  it  as  perfectly  reasonable 
when  it  was  the  most  arrant  rubbish  to  a 
European. 

On  the  sixteen  years  premise  I  have  not  been 
nearly  long  enough  among  the  people  to  judge, 
but  for  all  that  I  propose  to  record  for  you  my 
impressions.  It  is  now  a  week  since  I  took  up 
my  pen  to  write  to  you,  and  all  the  time  I  have 
been  living  and  moving  amongst  tiny  native 
villages  and  the  great  mountains,  without  a 
white  man — and  he  as  far  as  I  from  the  rest 
of  his  people — being  ever  nearer  than  one  day's 
journey.  Each  day's  trek  has  been  really  enjoy- 
able, not  too  long  and  not  too  short,  but  they 
have  been  so  much  alike  that  I  am  a  little  tired 
of  them.  Up  a  thousand  feet,  in  and  out  and 
in  and  out  again  along  and  around  the  crests 
at  that  level,  then  down  a  thousand  feet  and 
then  up  again,  and  so  on,  two  or  three  times  a 
day — so  the  survey  map  says  I  have  travelled. 
In  the  early  evening  one  reaches  the  village  for 
which  one  has  been  aiming,  and  this  week  I 
have  slept  each  night  in  a  native  hut,  and  each 
night  in  a  different  one.  To-night,  as  I  write, 


OF  MISUNDERSTANDINGS  59 

I  am  all  but  up  on  the  border.  No  priest  has 
ever  been  here  before,  and  I  should  think,  quite 
probably,  no  European  officials.  It  is  not  quite 
near  enough  to  the  border  for  the  border  patrol 
to  have  passed,  and  the  main  Government  trail 
up,  between  the  two  nearest  "camps"  as  we 
call  them,  crosses  the  river,  above  which  is  this 
village,  some  four  or  five  miles  down  stream  and 
quite  out  of  sight.  This  week,  too,  is,  of  course, 
only  one  of  many,  so,  although  I  have  not  had 
sixteen  years'  experience,  I  have  something  of 
which  to  write. 

I  should  say,  first,  that  I  think  the  native  is 
the  most  exasperating  person  it  is  possible  to 
meet.  But  he  is  exasperating  for  the  same  rea- 
son that  he  often  appears  rude,  because  mainly 
he  has  no  idea  that  what  you  would  call  rude 
or  exasperating  is  so.  The  way  he  meets  you 
on  trek  and  stops  and  shouts  at  you;  the  way 
he  barges  into  the  hut  where  you  are  writing 
or  reading,  hat  on  head  and  talking  loudly  six- 
teen to  the  dozen;  his  slowness  at  grasping  a 
new  thing  and  his  unreasoning  suspicions  of  it; 
his  habit  of  talking  at  you  and  over  you;  his 
slow  stare  and  laugh  at  you;  his  acquiescence 
in  what  you  say  and  his  immediate  doing  of 
exactly  the  opposite — all  this  is  annoying.  A 
good  deal  of  it  the  average  white  man  never 
experiences,  for,  as  you  might  guess,  he  would 
consider  it  below  his  dignity  to  offer  the  occa- 
sion for  it ;  but  if  it  comes  your  way,  you  begin, 


60  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

after  a  while,  to  see  that  it  is  not  meant.  It 
comes  my  way  because  it  seems  to  me  that,  if 
a  priest  comes  as  a  priest  to  a  village,  he  comes 
very  simply  and  humbly  as  the  guest  and  as  the 
servant  of  a  humble  Lord,  and  it  is  not  for  him 
to  demand  this  or  that,  or  to  isolate  himself. 
Some  would  call  that  being  a  traitor  to  one's 
colour,  I  suppose;  but  I  cannot  help  it,  for  to 
act  otherwise  would  be  to  be  a  traitor  to  one's 
God. 

I  have  come  at  last  to  feel  about  natives  a 
little  of  what  I  feel  about  horses  and  dogs !  That 
hardly  sounds  agreeable  with  my  last  para- 
graph, does  it?  but  it  really  is.  I  mean  that  I 
love  animals  immensely,  and  I  always  want  to 
treat  them  as  if  they  were  human  beings.  With 
my  horses  especially  I  feel  this.  I  am  always 
catching  myself  saying:  " Cheer  up,  old  man! 
only  another  two  miles!"  or  "Steady  on,  young 
'un!  I  can  see  further  than  you  can  up  here, 
and  I  know  that's  a  bad  road."  But  it  is  no 
use  talking  like  that,  just  as  it  is  no  use  feeling 
about  a  horse  as  you  would  about  a  man.  I 
do  not  mean,  of  course,  that  it  is  no  use  to  feel 
at  all,  and  that  one  has  any  right  to  be  unkind, 
but  I  mean  you  have  got  to  realise  that  what  is 
pleasant  to  you  is  not  necessarily  pleasant  to 
a  horse,  and  that  what  is  pain  to  you  is  not 
necessarily  pain  to  him,  and  so  on.  He  belongs 
to  a  different  race.  His  mental  outlook  is  in 
another  category  to  ours.  So  my  present  pony, 


OF  MISUNDERSTANDINGS  61 

Yacob,  little  ass  that  he  is,  simply  will  not  let 
me  get  off  and  lead  him  up  or  down  hill.  If  I 
do,  he  plants  his  legs  on  the  ground  and  will 
not  move.  It  is  no  use  my  explaining  that  it 
will  be  easier  for  him  if  I  walk,  or  that  I  prefer 
to  walk  or  that  I  do  not  want  to  tire  him:  noth- 
ing will  induce  him  to  move.  There  is  nothing 
for  it  but  to  sit  on  him,  and  after  some  long, 
panting,  breathless  ascent,  if  I  get  off  at  the 
summit,  he  will  rub  his  nose  against  my  arm,  as 
much  as  to  say,  "Now,  that  was  well  done, 
wasn't  it,  master?"  If,  on  the  other  hand,  I 
simply  cannot  ride  him  down  a  stiff  descent,  the 
only  thing  to  do  is  to  fasten  the  reins  up  and 
throw  stones  at  him  to  make  him  go  on  ahead. 
And  at  the  bottom  blest  if  he  will  speak  to  me! 
One  ought  to  remember,  I  suppose,  that,  if  a 
man  gets  tired  first  in  his  legs,  a  mountain  pony 
gets  tired  there  last.  At  the  end  of  a  long  day 
if  I  say  to  Cyril:  "Don't  hobble  the  horses  to- 
night, Cirili:  they  must  be  dog-tired;  let  them 
be  easy,"  why,  nine  times  out  of  ten  they  will 
be  half  a  dozen  miles  off  in  the  morning. 

But  this  is  not  to  say  that  the  horse  is  not 
an  intelligent  and  amiable  gentleman.  He  cer- 
tainly is,  but  his  intelligence  and  amiability  are 
not  those  of  a  man.  And  it  is  so,  I  think,  with 
the  native.  He  is  not  a  European,  and  the  cen- 
turies behind  him  have  taught  him  other  les- 
sons, so  that  your  first  step  towards  understand- 
ing him  has  got  to  be  that  you  must  never  judge 


62  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

him  by  your  standards,  nor  suppose  that  his 
mental  processes  will  be  entirely  in  line  with 
your  own. 

Once,  a  year  or  so  ago,  I  rode  painfully  up 
the  last  hundred  of  a  thousand  feet  to  a  village, 
the  wind  cold  and  biting  and  the  rain  coming 
up.  There  were  a  couple  of  men  and  some 
women  about,  and  the  women  stared  a  little 
and  then  went  indoors,  while  the  men  sat  on 
without  moving.  We  got  off,  and  Cyril  went  up 
to  the  men.  They  grunted  at  each  other  and 
fired  out  questions,  and  got  up  and  looked  at 
me  and  spat  and  sat  down  again.  I  fear  I  lost 
my  temper.  It  was  six  hours  since  I  had  eaten, 
and  I  was  cold  and  very  tired,  so  I  off-saddled 
my  own  horse,  got  out  a  ground-sheet,  lit  my 
pipe,  and  removed  myself  a  score  of  paces. 
There  I  sat  on  a  rock  in  the  rain  and  thought 
evil  things  of  natives.  After  a  bit  a  man  got 
up  and  came  over  to  me.  He  stood  a  few  yards 
off  and  stared.  Then  he  said,  "Hum-hum!" 
nasally  several  times,  and  finally  held  out  his 
hand  for  a  shake.  I  restrained  myself  enough 
to  take  it.  Then  he  said,  Would  I  not  come 
to  a  house?  I  said  (in  English,  fortunately, 
for  I  was  too  angry  to  remember  any  Sesuto), 
"Good  heavens,  man!  Do  you  think  I  like  sit- 
ting on  a  ground-sheet  in  the  rain?"  And  he 
did  not  understand,  and  smiled  sweetly,  and 
said,  * '  Hum-hum ! ' '  again,  and  led  the  way.  And 
then  I  found  that  the  women  had  already  been 


OF  MISUNDERSTANDINGS  63 

removing  their  goods  into  the  rain  to  clear  me 
a  hut,  and  that  the  head  man  had  seen  us  coming 
and  had  gone  off  at  once  to  find  a  sheep  to  slay 
for  me.  You  see,  a  native  would  not  have  been 
particularly  cold  or  tired  or  hungry,  nor  would 
he  have  minded  the  rain,  nor  is  it  his  code  of 
etiquette  at  once  to  usher  a  stranger  within 
doors  and  offer  him  a  drink.  But  I  had  not 
thought  of  all  that. 

Another  time  we  had  been  travelling  for 
hours  and  hours  without  a  sight  of  a  hut.  I 
had  malaria  and  a  temperature  of  103  degrees, 
and  it  was  raining  steadily.  We  arrived  at 
sunset,  at  long  last,  at  a  village,  and  I  told 
Cyril  we  must  off-saddle  there.  There  was  one 
man  only  visible,  and  he  refused.  He  said  we 
were  too  near  " lands"  of  wheat,  and  the  horses 
would  get  in.  We  must  go  on  to  the  next  vil- 
lage, just  over  that  rise.  We  went,  and  the 
village  turned  out  to  be  up  half  a  mountain, 
round  a  precipice,  and  some  two  miles  off.  But, 
you  see,  wheat  lands  bulked  bigger  to  that  native 
than  they  did  to  me,  and  he  did  not  know  what 
malaria  was.  Nor  is  two  miles  round  a  precipice 
and  up  five  hundred  feet  anything  more  than 
"  just  over  there"  to  a  native  in  the  mountains. 

Perhaps  I  am  learning  a  little.  Nowadays  I 
ride  up,  get  off,  sit  down,  talk  a  bit,  and  smoke. 
Presently  I  am  asked  to  a  hut.  I  long  to  unpack 
and  make  arrangements  for  the  night,  but  I  do 
not.  Some  time  or  another  Cyril  brings  in  my 


64  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

kit,  or  I  am  conducted  elsewhere  and  find  it. 
Some  time  or  another  a  fire  gets  lit,  and 
Cyril  comes  up  and  says,  "Porridge  to-night, 
Father!"  just  as  cheerfully  as  if  he  had  said, 
"Boast  duck!"  or  "Lamb  and  mint  sauce!" 
And  I  say,  "I  think  I'll  have  some  tea,  Cirili," 
just  as  if  I  had  a  case  of  champagne  in  the  pack. 
With  the  porridge  he  will  bring  some  cold  pota- 
toes and  some  mafi — thick,  sour  milk — very 
good,  or  a  chicken,  with  luck,  and  some  native 
bread.  And  then  I  eat,  with  no  regard  for  the 
European  order  of  dishes,  and  possibly  I  have 
some  jam  or  a  tin  of  sardines  from  my  own 
few  stores.  Afterwards  the  folk  crowd  in  for 
night  prayers,  with  howling  babies  to  be  com- 
forted at  the  breast  and  little  herds  in  skins. 
They  sit  on  my  bed,  but  it  does  not  matter. 
And  then  I  get  into  pyjamas  and  read  Brown- 
ing, perhaps ;  and  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  think 
we  are  getting  to  know  each  other  that  way. 

Last  night  I  rolled  up  at  a  village  where  I 
am  well  known.  A  little  kiddie  in  a  string  of 
beads  (Hesther,  aged  eight)  rushed  at  me  and 
climbed  on  my  knee  and  felt  in  my  pockets  for 
sweets.  They  gave  me  a  marvellously  decorated 
hut,  with  a  dado  running  round  about  three  feet 
from  the  floor  and  figures  in  coloured  earths 
above  of  the  most  incredible  horses,  hippopot- 
ami, ostriches,  and  sheep,  with  a  human  hand 
with  outspread  fingers  at  intervals.  Calendars, 
four  of  them,  also  adorned  the  walls,  for  1901, 


OF  MISUNDERSTANDINGS  65 

1905,  1911,  and  1912  respectively.  My  hostess 
came  in,  and  dressed  and  chatted  while  I  waited 
for  supper.  I  fed  on  porridge,  eggs,  bread,  jam, 
and  tea,  and  a  dish  of  cold  boiled  beans  that 
came  in  at  the  end.  Hesther  knelt  by  me  during 
prayers,  in  a  sheep-skin  now,  very  quiet  and 
devout,  and  my  host  only  spat  once  or  twice  on 
the  floor  on  which  I  was  to  sleep.  Also  he 
offered  me  the  blanket  he  was  wearing  in  case 
I  had  not  enough. 

My  dear,  I  wonder  if  God  finds  us  as  rude  and 
as  difficult.  I  wonder  if  heaven  and  its  ways 
will  seem  as  remote  from  our  ideas  as  their  ways 
seem  to  me  remote  from  mine.  But  one  thing  I 
do  not  question,  and  it  moves  me  much  to-night. 
Our  Heavenly  Father  will  be  so  much  more 
tender  and  more  patient  with  me  than  I  am 
with  them.  Good-night. 


8.    OF  THE  MISSION  PACK-SADDLE 

I  DID  not  write  to  you  last  night,  and  if  you 
could  have  inspected  my  quarters,  you 
would  not  have  expected  me  to  do  so.  If 

you  had  seen  me  lying  in  But  wait  a 

minute ;  it  will  spoil  the  tale  to  begin  like  that. 

We  set  out — Cyril  and  I  and  four  horses — 
from  a  certain  village,  very  much  out  of  the  way 
in  the  mountains,  to  trek  down  to  comparative 
civilisation,  a  store,  and  another  village.  We 
were  not  able  to  start  very  early  because  of 
mass,  but  we  got  a  good  pace  on  when  once  on 
the  road,  for  we  knew  we  had  eight  hours'  trek 
ahead  of  us,  all  unknown  road,  and  some  of  it 
across  uplands  without  the  semblance  of  a  foot- 
path. And  we  got  on  quite  well  for  about  three 
hours,  and  then  the  series  of  catastrophes  began. 

I  should  tell  you  that  we  were  trekking  along 
the  very  edge  of  the  Berg  above  Natal,  and, 
always  beautiful,  it  was  yesterday  a  supremely 
wonderful  sight.  Natal  lies  8,000  feet  below, 
and  the  great  krantzes  on  the  top  of  which  we 
ride  fall  all  but  sheer  in  some  places.  Here  and 
there  they  rise  to  rocky  castles  of  unclimbable 
stone,  which  we  have  to  skirt,  and  here  and 
there  again  great  fissures  are  split  in  them 

66 


OP  THE  MISSION  PACK-SADDLE        67 

which  run  down  dizzily  to  the  far  plains  be- 
neath. Sometimes  Natal  lies  bathed  in  sunlight 
and  spread  out  like  a  map;  sometimes — and  yes- 
terday was  one  of  the  times — the  clouds  hide 
it,  and  we  are  above  the  clouds.  The  solid 
ground  was  beneath  our  feet,  and  on  the  right 
buttress  and  crest  and  peak  of  the  face  of  the 
Berg,  but  on  the  left,  so  far  as  one  could  see, 
a  tossed  sea  of  billowy  white  cloud.  So  the 
world  must  look  to  an  airman.  And  then  sud- 
denly all  that  fleecy  ocean  got  in  motion.  It 
was  rolled  up  towards  us,  and  came  on  in  great 
waves  of  white  soft  mist  eddying  round  the 
castles,  and  washing  up  the  fissures,  to  spread 
over  every  depression  on  our  side  of  the  border. 
Beautiful  as  it  was,  it  was  a  sinister  thing.  Once 
that  cloud  envelops  you,  unless  the  road  is  well 
known  (and  even  then  it  is  dangerous),  you 
must  camp  where  you  stand. 

So  Cyril  and  I  rode  hard.  It  was  wonderful 
how  we  escaped  it.  At  times  we  cut  across  the 
top  of  a  funnel  up  which  the  white  vapour  rolled 
from  cloud-land  with  so  little  time  to  spare  that 
100  yards  behind,  when  we  had  got  across,  you 
could  see  nothing  at  all  but  a  white  wall.  King 
John  and  the  Wash  were  not  in  it!  But  honestly 
it  was  eerie,  that  continual  rush  to  avoid  being 
cut  off. 

And  then  suddenly  came  a  crash  of  thunder. 
We  had  hardly  noticed,  but  the  storm  that  had 
forced  the  mists  before  it  was  upon  us  now. 


68  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

\ 

As  unbelievably  quickly  as  any  one  who  knows 
these  parts  could  tell  you  the  heavens  began  to 
break  up,  as  it  seemed,  above  us,  and  down  came 
the  hail.  Yes,  hail  although  it  is  mid-summer, 
stinging,  biting,  freezing  hail,  and  there  was 
little  that  we  could  do.  But  in  a  moment  we 
had  to  do  something,  for  a  pack-horse,  stung  up 
or  scared,  or  both,  bolted  a  few  yards  and  jerked 
up  his  pack-saddle,  which  promptly  broke  for 
the  nih  time. 

There  now,  you  have  it,  my  grievance,  my 
bugbear,  the  burden  of  my  lament — the  Mission 
Pack-Saddle.  How  it  came  into  the  Mission  I 
cannot  say.  In  moments  of  care-free  benignity, 
comfortably  ensconced  at  home,  I  can  conceive 
that  some  one  was  once  grateful  for  it.  But 
that  must  have  been  a  long  time  ago,  for  its 
pattern  is,  as  I  should  say,  much  after  the  style 
of  those  used  by  Abraham  in  trekking  from  the 
land  of  Charran.  It  is  compacted  of  wood  and 
naked  wrought  iron,  besides  leather,  with  little 
hand-screws  to  work  it  up  and  down;  and  the 
straps  connected  with  it  are  legion.  My  horses, 
even  in  their  stable,  wear  a  tired  and  scared 
expression,  and  people  say  it  is  because  of  the 
amount  of  work  asked  of  them;  but  that  is  not 
true;  it  is  because  they  know  the  Mission  Pack- 
Saddle  is  in  the  saddle-room  next  door,  and  they 
may  be  called  upon  at  any  time  to  carry  it. 

I  swore  never  to  use  it  again  the  first  time  I 
trekked — the  time  the  bags  burst  to  bits  and  the 


OF  THE  MISSION  PACK-SADDLE        69 

jam-bottle  smashed  among  my  blankets! — but 
I  had  to,  and  I  got  new  leather  bags — at  least, 
they  were  not  new,  but  they  were  leather — and 
packed  my  blankets  outside.  Another  time  the 
cast-iron  shoulder  broke,  and  we  took  three  days 
to  trek  one  day's  journey.  And  how  many 
times  straps  have  broken,  how  many  times  it 
has  given  horses  sore  backs,  how  many  times  it 
has  endangered  my  immortal  soul,  I  cannot  tell 
you.  I  hardly  dare  think.  This  time,  however, 
it  only  lost  a  screw  and  a  nut,  and  Spider 
quieted  after  he  had  bucked  off  the  bags> 
smashed  the  frying-pan,  and  put  his  foot 
through  the  kettle. 

We  could  do  nothing  while  the  hail  fell,  but 
after  a  while  it  merely  drizzled,  and  then  we  set 
to.  The  thunder  had  dispersed  the  mist,  but  the 
drizzle  crept  down  our  backs,  and  the  hail  lay 
thick  and  white  on  the  ground,  and  it  was  so 
cold  that  our  hands  grew  utterly  numb.  I 
hardly  know  how  we  patched  the  thing  up  and 
got  going  again,  but  we  did — with  two  hours 
lost. 

We  could  scarcely  get  along,  either.  Twice 
the  pack  worked  loose  as  a  result  of  the  accident, 
and  we  slithered  and  slipped  and  wrestled  with 
stiff  reins  on  and  on  and  on.  At  6.30  p.m.  in  an 
unknown  land,  and  obviously  still  far  from 
villages  or  the  store,  I  said  to  Cyril  that  we  must 
camp  down,  and  camp  down  we  did,  while  the 
night  crept  on  apace  and  the  rain  fell  steadily. 


70  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

Oh,  I  daresay  numbers  of  ten  times  more 
heroic  people  have  done  it  under  worse  circum- 
stances before  me,  but  that  does  not  make  it  any 
better !  You  imagine  it !  You  dismount  in  the 
rain,  and  take  the  saddles  off.  Still  in  the  rain, 
you  select  a  reasonably  smooth  piece  of  sodden 
ground,  and  you  unroll  the  wet  tent  and  get  it 
up.  You  put  a  wet  ground-sheet  on  the  wet 
ground  under  the  wet  tent — the  small  patrol 
size  about  four  feet  high — and  you  spread  your 
roll  of  more  or  less  wet  blankets  on  the  ground- 
sheet.  (Eemember,  we  missionaries  are  not 
police  officers;  we  travel  with  one  boy  and  one 
— Mission — pack-saddle;  we  cannot  keep  our 
blankets  dry  in  bags.)  Then  you  get  your  wet 
self  inside,  and  you  settle  down  to  a  cold,  damp 
supper.  A  few  knobs  of  cold  mutton,  some 
native  bread,  and  water  of  a  thick  brown  colour, 
because  the  rain  had  swollen  and  discoloured 
every  stream,  had  to  content  us,  and  after  that 
I  did  not  feel  I  could  write  to  you.  Instead  I 
crept  into  the  blankets  in  my  riding-breeches 
and  shirt,  had  one  final  and  comprehensive  curse 
at  the  pack-saddle,  and  slept. 

What  do  you  say?  My  dear,  do  you  think  I 
have  not  tried?  The  Government  has  no  end  of 
them,  but  it  will  not  sell,  because  when  the 
Prince  of  Wales  or  the  Governor-General  or  a 
M.L.A.  visits  the  country  they  have  to  use 
several  score  at  once.  They  have  most  kindly 
lent  me  one  now  and  again,  for  short  treks,  when 


OF  THE  MISSION  PACK-SADDLE        71 

I  really  could  not  stand  the  thought  of  the 
Mission  Pack-Saddle  or  while  it  was  in  hospital; 
but  that  was  for  short  treks,  and  I  could  not 
ask  for  one  for  so  long  a  trek  as  this.  There 
is  a  decent  saddle,  indeed,  on  sale  at  a  store  I 
know  of — a  small  one,  but  the  right  breed.  I 
have  often  looked  at  it  and  longed.  But  do  you 
know  the  price?  £30!  Honestly,  £30!  A 
month's  salary  of  a  Durban  tram-conductor,  six 
weeks  of  mine!  Thirty  pounds  would  pay  a 
catechist  for  a  year,  would  build  the  walls  of 
a  mission  church,  would  enable  me  to  fit  up 
several  schools  with  the  new  black-boards  and 
the  few  desks  that  they  so  badly  want,  and 
would  warrant — if  I  really  had  so  much  ab- 
solutely and  actually  over  the  year's  working 
and  in  hand — my  venturing,  with  some  hope  of 
success,  on  the  opening  of  one  of  the  half-dozen 
new  out-stations  for  which  the  work  is  crying 
out.  Why  don't  I  get  a  new  one,  indeed!  You 
do  not  know  what  you  say.  But  for  all  that, 
if  the  thing  were  to  let  me  down  once  too  often, 
let  us  say  in  the  winter  while  snow  was  falling, 
and  if  I  could  not  mend  it,  as  might  easily  hap- 
pen, and  so  I  could  not  get  on,  and  if  the  snow 
were  to  lie  on  the  tops  there  for  a  couple  of 
weeks,  as  it  often  does,  why,  then,  my  loving 
friends  and  relations  would  doubtless  put  up  a 
brazen  memorial  tablet  somewhere  to  my 
memory,  whereon  would  be  inscribed  heroic 
words  saying  that  I  had  perished  in  bitter 


72  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

weather  while  doing  my  duty  on  the  face  of  the 
Berg.  But  you,  my  dear,  would  know  better. 
You  would  know  that  the  true  inscription 
ought  to  run: 

TO    THE    MEMORY   OF 

FKANCIS   THOMAS  WILFRID, 

WHO   PERISHED 
IN   BITTER  WEATHER   .   .    .   ETC., 

Killed  by  the  Mission  Pack-Saddle. 

But,  you  know,  joking  apart — only  it  is  really 
not  joking  at  all — this  sort  of  thing  does  make 
one  wonder  a  little.  I  do  not  expect  the  Govern- 
ment to  give  me  a  pack-saddle,  for  I  do  not 
regard  this  or  any  modern  Government  as  iden- 
tified in  any  sense  with  Christianity.  The 
officials  as  men  are  very  friendly;  the  Govern- 
ment as  a  whole  is  very  courteous;  but  they 
as  a  class  and  it  as  an  institution  have  no 
definite  faith,  and  are  not  out  here  for  philan- 
thropic purposes.  Nor  do  I  expect  most  of  my 
fellow-countrymen,  here  or  at  home,  to  give  me 
a  pack-saddle,  for  they  mostly  do  not  believe  in 
missions  to  the  heathen,  and  often  whole- 
heartedly think  that  the  bodies  of  the  suffering 
poor  outside  the  empty  London  churches  are 
more  important  than  the  souls  of  black  folk  who 
crowd  out  what  churches  there  are  in  this  land, 
but  mostly  have  no  churches  outside  of  which 
to  sit.  Nor  do  I  expect  my  Bishop  to  give  me 
one,  for  he  spends  his  time  in  trying  to  ad- 


OF  THE  MISSION  PACK-SADDLE        73 

minister  a  diocese  financially  on  a  starvation 
pittance.  But  I  do  wonder  if  Christian  Church- 
people  at  home  have  a  right  sense  of  proportion. 
My  pack-saddle  is  only  typical  of  ten  thousand 
similar  needs  of  hundreds  of  other  priests  of  the 
Anglican  Church  who  have  gone  to  undertake 
the  Church's  supreme  duty  on  the  edge  of 
civilisation  and  beyond,  and  whose  work  is 
hampered,  whose  lives  are  even  endangered,  for 
less  than  the  cost  of  that  new  "brass  lectern  or 
of  that  handsome  set  of  hassocks.  Of  course 
one  cannot  blame  the  people  who  give  the  lec- 
tern or  subscribe  for  the  hassocks.  I  honestly 
do  not.  But  I  rolled  over  in  my  wet  blankets 
trying  to  get  to  sleep  last  night  and  thought, 
for  the  millionth  time,  that  my  old  pack-saddle 
is  not  the  only  relic  with  a  screw  loose  and  a 
nut  missing! 


9.    OF  THE  BEST  IN  LIFE 

AT  my  last  resting-place  I  picked  up  an 
old  illustrated  magazine,  and  I  have 
been  reading  it  to-day  at  the  midday  off- 
saddle.  There  is  an  article  in  it  that  interests 
me  very  much,  and  I  have  read  it  again  and 
again,  although,  I  confess,  with  little  result.  I 
don't  quite  see  what  is  the  conclusion  of  the 
writer's  meditations.  Perhaps,  like  so  many 
modern  meditations,  it  is  not  meant  to  have  a 
conclusion.  At  any  rate,  he  is  discussing  "The 
Best  in  Life,"  and  I  cannot  really  make  out 
what  he  takes  the  best  in  life  to  be,  or  whether 
or  not — and  this  is  the  important  thing — he 
advises  you  to  climb  any  obstacle  and  break 
every  convention  to  get  it.  "Love  and  Work 
contain  some  of  the  best  in  Life,"  he  says, 
"without  a  doubt";  but  that  does  not  help 
much.  If  the  best  of  life  is  distributed  around 
in  that  way,  and  reaches  you  as  a  kind  of  10  per 
cent,  solution  in  a  number  of  bottles,  it  is  a  poor 
business.  Most  of  us  cannot  afford  to  buy  half 
the  bottles. 

But  you  were  talking  to  me  once  about  this 
sort  of  thing,  and  I  am  intrigued  with  the  prob^ 

74 


OF  THE  BEST  IN  LIFE  75 

lem.  What  does  the  phrase  mean,  I  wonder? 
Does  it  mean  the  best  thing  that  living  has  to 
offer,  or  does  it  mean  the  thing  that  makes  one's 
life,  taken  as  a  whole,  the  best  life  possible?  If 
the  first,  then  of  course  the  best  in  life  may  be 
some  crowning  moment  or  thing  long  wanted 
and  hardly  attained,  but  gone  after  the  moment, 
or  gone  after  a  while  at  any  rate.  One  might 
debate  that  it  meant  anything  from  a  first  kiss 
to  a  first  baby,  or  from  the  sense  of  achievement 
on  the  acquisition  of  one's  first  fiver  up  to  the 
smiling  possession  of  a  considerable  fortune.  If 
the  second,  I  should  say  it  varied  much  with  the 
disposition  of  the  individual.  Popularity;  the 
trust  of  one's  fellow-men;  freedom  to  wander 
at  will ;  a  pleasant  ordinary  wife  in  an  ordinary 
pleasant  home;  excitement;  cricket;  big  game 
shooting;  study — all  these  are  things  which, 
acquired,  would  be  acclaimed  by  some  people  as 
offering  them  the  best  in  life.  Honestly,  it  is  not 
an  easy  phrase. 

You  remember  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells'  fine  novel, 
"Love  and  Mr.  Lewisham."  It  is  concerned 
with  the  discovery  of  the  best  in  life.  Mr. 
Lewisham  thought  the  best  lay  in  getting  on,  in 
making  a  name,  in  adhering  to  a  time-table; 
that  ideal  broken,  he  thought  it  lay  in  a  girl's 
love;  and  after  vicissitudes  and  disappoint- 
ments he  heard  his  first  baby  crying  in  its  cot, 
and  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  the  discovery. 
The  best  of  life  lay  there.  I  think  it  does  for 


76  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

thousands  of  people.  To  create  the  little  life, 
to  guard  and  mould  and  cherish  it — that  is  their 
best  in  life.  As  a  philosopher  one  may  marvel. 
Nature  is  an  amazing  sorceress.  She  sends  men 
and  women  out  to  a  colossal  struggle  in  which 
they  hardly  survive,  and  she  breathes  over  them 
a  spell  so  that  their  worn  faces  only  smile  at 
last,  thinking  they  have  achieved,  when  they 
have  brought  yet  another  life  into  the  age-long 
conflict  within  the  vicious  circle. 

Or  I  have  never  forgotten  what  I  still  think  to 
be  the  cleverest  and  most  striking  short  story  I 
have  ever  read.  I  do  not  know  who  wrote  it  nor 
where  I  read  it,  but  there  was  only  just  one  idea 
in  it,  as  there  ought  to  be  in  a  short  story.  It 
can  be  quite  briefly  told.  There  was  a  clerk, 
getting  on  for  sixty,  who,  boy  and  man,  had 
worked  for  one  firm  whole-heartedly,  ungrudg- 
ingly, unceasingly.  He  had  never  married ;  he 
had  never  taken  what  you  would  call  a  holiday ; 
he  appeared  to  have  no  interests  outside  the 
office;  and  within  it,  although  trusted  abso- 
lutely, he  was  just  the  queer,  unimaginative, 
groovy  old  Tom  whom  nobody  could  imagine 
anywhere  else  but  on  his  stool.  His  salary  was 
enough  for  his  bachelor  needs.  He  was  just  a 
bit  of  the  office  furniture. 

But  old  Tom  had  his  best  in  life,  for  which  he 
had  lived  and  schemed  and  hoped  and  prayed 
for  fifty  long  years,  a  mad  "best  in  life,"  with- 
out rhyme  or  reason,  of  which  he  could  not 


OF  THE  BEST  IN  LIFE  77 

speak,  it  was  too  dear,  but  for  which  he  never 
ceased  to  hope.  He  wanted  to  visit  San  Fran- 
cisco !  He,  whose  daily  'bus  ride  was  all  but  the 
limit  so  far  of  his  life's  journeyings,  was  at 
heart  a  born  traveller ;  he,  who  seemed  the  most 
unimaginative  of  men,  had  the  mind  of  a  poet. 
Born  in  a  dull  environment,  enslaved  to  a  daily 
routine,  he  had  saved  and  schemed  and  planned 
for  six  months'  riot  one  day  among  the  colour 
and  scent  and  beauty  of  lovely  'Frisco.  He 
knew  its  streets,  the  view  through  the  Golden 
Gate,  the  sound  of  the  Pacific  surf  on  its 
shores,  the  glory  of  the  setting  sun  across  a 
world  of  ocean,  from  the  books ;  and  at  sixty  he 
saw  the  possibility  of  the  realisation  of  his 
dream.  He  had  at  length  saved  the  money;  in 
long  years  of  service  he  had  more  than  earned 
six  months  of  leave.  It  only  remained  to 
a  six.  •  .  • 

It  needed  all  his  pluck  to  knock  at  the 
master's  door,  for  he  never  did  so,  except  at 
regular  times.  The  little  old  man,  once  inside, 
usually  so  composed  and  dry,  could  hardly 
speak  for  nervousness,  and  he  only  got  out  his 
modest  request — six  months'  leave  after  fifty 
years'  service — stammering,  at  long  last.  And 
his  master  could  hardly  believe  his  ears.  What 
ever  did  lie  want  six  months '  leave  for  ?  He  had 
no  relations!  Stuff  and  nonsense,  then!  six 
months!  He  could  have  a  fortnight  to  go  to 
Margate,  but  six  months !  Why,  he  had  always 


78  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

been  bored  with  holidays,  and  glad  to  get  back 
if  he  took  the  inside  of  a  week.  Was  he  sure  he 
was  quite  well? 

Yes,  quite  sure,  and  he  wanted  six  months' 
leave  .  .  . 

But  why?  Let  him  tell  his  master  why. 
Come  now,  out  with  it !  What  in  the  wide  world 
did  he,  old  Tom,  want  with  six  months'  leave? 
Eeally  it  had  its  funny  side  .  .  .  And  his 
master  laughed  heartily. 

Poor  old  Tom !  That  laughter  finished  him. 
How  could  he  say  he  wanted  his  best  in  life? 
How  could  he  say  that  he,  the  old  crabbed  clerk 
of  sixty,  wanted  to  realise  the  dream  of  years 
and  go  off  to — San  Francisco!  He  could  not 
say  it,  and  he  did  not.  He  mumbled  that  very 
likely  the  master  was  right;  he'd  think  better 
of  it  ... 

"That's  right,"  said  his  master  kindly,  tak- 
ing up  his  pen.  "You  can  have  that  fortnight 
whenever  you  like,  and  it  need  not  cost  you 
anything,  either;  you've  been  a  good  servant  to 
the  firm.  Thank  you.  Good-morning. ' ' 

An  hour  later  he  passed  through  his  office  on 
his  way  to  lunch  and  saw  old  Tom  in  the  same 
old  coat  at  the  same  old  desk.  "Funny  old 
chap!"  he  mused  as  the  door  shut  behind  him. 
"I  wonder  what  the  old  donkey  was  thinking 
about!" 

I  have  never  forgotten  that  story,  and  never 
shall.  Maybe  the  best  in  life,  to  nine  out  of  ten 


OF  THE  BEST  IN  LIFE  79 

of  us,  is  never  any  more  than  a  dream  of  wKich 
we  dare  not  speak 

But  The  Best  in  Life — what  is  it?  An  hour 
ago  I  had  almost  said  it  was  this  off-saddle  so 
far  as  I  am  concerned!  It  does  take  a  great 
deal  of  beating — the  long  morning's  ride  on  a 
cup  of  coffee ;  the  arrival  at  a  place  like  this,  a 
place  with  a  couple  of  willows  drooping  over  a 
crystal  stream,  a  bed  of  rich  grass,  a  rugged  old 
mountain  behind,  the  wide,  far-spreading  valley 
before,  and  the  dreaming,  cloudless  vault 
above ;  then  the  rest  as  one  flings  oneself  down, 
and  the  joy  of  a  pipe,  and  every  care  in  the 
whole  world  banished  over  yonder  ridge,  for  at 
least  you  can  do  nothing,  be  found  by  nobody, 
and  want  no  more  just  here  and  now.  No  more  ? 
Well,  I  wonder.  Will  you  understand  if  I  tell 
you  that  I  find  myself  remembering  that  "  Frag- 
ment" of  D.  G.  Kossetti's: 

"Who  shall  say  what  is  said  in  me, 
With  all  that  I  might  have  been  dead  in  me?" 

But  I  can  tell  you  what  I  believe  is  the  best 
in  life  to  every  man,  woman,  and  child  on  the 
planet — at  once  the  best  thing  life  has  to  offer 
and  the  thing  that  makes  life  the  best  to  each  of 
us.  And  it  is  not  really  a  pious,  conventional 
answer,  or  not  as  I  mean  it.  The  Best  in  Life, 
dear  heart,  is  God. 

So  does  Amiel  open  the  Journal  Intime! 

"There  is  but  one  thing  needful — to  possess  God." 


80  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

God  is  beyond  words  of  mine  to  tell.  He  is 
joy,  strength,  beauty,  grace,  reward,  striving, 
love,  vision,  and  life.  Everything  consists  in 
Him,  and  He  is  in  everything,  of  everything,  the 
soul  of  the  world.  Our  Lord  said,  traditionally, 
"Lift  the  stone,  and  there  thou  shalt  find  Me." 
True,  infinitely  true,  and  He  is  in  the  flower  in 
the  crannied  wall,  and  He  is  in  the  light  in  your 
eyes  and  the  gold  strands  that  run  through  your 
hair,  and  He  was  in  the  shining  of  the  well- 
scrubbed  Army  pots  to  Francis  in  Mr.  Benson's 
story,  and  it  is  His  Breast  on  which  I  lie  now 
on  this  green  grass,  and  whose  Face  smiles  at 
me  in  this  golden  valley.  People  won't  realise 
it;  that's  all.  He  is  not  the  God  they  imagine, 
not  the  God  of  Semitic  Commandments  and  of 
Jehu  and  of  the  late  Kaiser ;  passionately  I  tell 
you  that.  The  Old  Testament  tells  you  what 
the  Jews  thought  God  was  like,  just  as  the 
Kaiser's  speeches  told  us  what  he  thought  God 
was  like.  But  men  have  spent  their  days 
libelling  God.  They  have  thought  Him  far  off 
and  hidden,  but  He  is  not  far  and  not  hidden. 
He  is  revealing  Himself  all  the  time,  smiling  at 
us  out  of  every  beautiful  thing,  reaching  out  to 
us  in  every  noble  impulse,  picturing  Himself  to 
us  in  every  glorious  ideal,  yes,  and  touching  us 
with  those  wise  fatherly  fingers  of  His  in  every 
pain.  Oh,  the  good,  good  God  ... 

Well,  and  God  is  the  best  in  life.  He  is  the 
only  best.  If  a  man  find  Him,  he  has  lived;  if 


OF  THE  BEST  IN  LIFE  81 

not,  he  has  not  been  born.  Not  that  He  is  hard 
to  find,  and  indeed  He  is  found  of  them  that 
seek  Him  not  often  enough,  and  of  them  who  do 
not  know  that  it  is  He  when  they  have  found 
Him.  But  it  is  He  all  the  same,  and  I  will  tell 
you  how  I  think  He  is  found. 

We  men,  my  dear — and  I  will  not  speak  of 
women — are  a  sordid  sort  of  beasts  in  a  way. 
We  very  easily  do  sordid  kinds  of  things,  things 
which  a  woman,  unless  her  eyes  have  been 
opened,  finds  hard  to  understand.  And,  in  ad- 
dition to  this,  we  often  have  sordid  schemes  for 
life,  or  allow  ourselves  to  grow  sordid  in  the 
execution  of  them. 

But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  men  with 
ideals,  and  still  more  men  (if  not  every  man) 
who  glimpse  ideals  now  and  again  even  if  they 
turn  from  them  with  a  sigh.  There  are  men 
with  high  ideals  of  honourable  work,  even  if  it 
be  no  more  than  honourable  human  service, 
from  the  great  scientist  who  is  honestly  out  to 
know  that  he  may  serve,  down  to  the  batmen 
many  of  us  had  in  the  War.  Patriotism  makes 
a  high  ideal  for  others.  Home  life  makes  a  high 
ideal  for  another,  and  I  have  seen  a  pathetic 
figure  of  a  city  clerk,  trudging  home  on  £150  a 
year  down  suburban  streets,  transformed  when 
he  had  safely  reached  his  " villa"  and  sat  down 
in  his  parlour  and  got  his  kiddies  on  his  knees. 
Eeligion  is  often  the  very  noblest  ideal  of  very 
noble  men,  if  the  world  only  knew  it,  from  the 


82  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

Breton  peasant,  who  gives  up  his  life  to  be  a 
foreign  missionary,  up  to  my  Lord  Cardinal 
who  says  humble,  childish  prayers  when  his 
day's  work  is  done.  And  there  are  men  who 
look  into  a  girl's  eyes  and  read  the  highest  of 
ideals  there,  who  kiss  the  hand  rather  than  the 
lips  after  that  look,  and  who  would  be  saints  of 
God  if  they  never  fell  from  what  they  had  seen 
in  that  moment.  One  and  all  of  these  men  have 
seen  God,  God  revealing  Himself  in  many  ways, 
but  God,  the  Soul  of  the  World. 

And  great  artists  paint,  and  know  that  there  is 
something  they  cannot  get  into  their  pictures 
altogether;  and  great  architects  build,  and 
when  they  have  built,  they  sigh  a  little;  and 
great  scientists  spend  their  years,  and  at  the 
end  there  is  a  look  in  their  eyes — you  can  see  it 
always — as  if  their  researches  had  led  them  all 
but  into  the  Presence  but  not  quite ;  and  great 
lovers — why,  they  usually  die  of  a  broken  heart 
because  they  have  not  been  able  to  love  as  they 
thought  they  would  when  first  they  looked  into 
love's  eyes.  And  the  lesser  good,  honest,  true- 
hearted  men — they,  too,  are  tired  towards  the 
close,  and  usually  are  glad  to  go.  Maybe  they 
do  not  know  why.  But  I  think  I  know.  They, 
too,  have  been  reaching  out  after  God,  and  have 
yet  quite  to  find  Him. 

But  the  search,  beloved,  is  the  best  in  life. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  world  is  very  blind 
not  to  see  all  this,  and  stretched  out  here  in  the 


OF  THE  BEST  IN  LIFE  83 

sun,  I  am  reminded  of  a  curious  little  incident 
of  which  I  was  once  a  spectator.  In  a  big  manu- 
facturing town,  I  wandered  into  a  hall  in  which 
a  lecture  was  being  given  on  the  evidence  for 
God.  A  young  minister  had  been  piling  up 
statements,  all  quite  good  and  true  as  I  thought, 
and  was  now  summing  up  preparatory  to  sit- 
ting down.  As  soon  as  he  did  so  a  workman  in 
the  hall  jumped  to  his  feet,  and  dashed  one  fist 
into  the  other.  " It's  all  a  lie,  mister,"  he  said, 
"and  I'll  offer  ye  the  best  proof  one  man  can 
give  another.  I  deny  God.  But  if  there  is  a 
living  God,  let  Him  strike  me  dead  this 
minute!" 

He  flashed  his  hand  out  dramatically,  and  so 
stood.  It  was,  maybe,  cheap,  but  it  was  effect- 
ive. A  dead  silence  fell,  and  a  woman  near  me 
shuddered.  I  wondered  what  the  platform 
would  do.  But  we  had  not  long  to  wait,  for  the 
young  minister  got  up  easily  and  burst  into  a 
hearty  laugh. 

It  sounded  very  curiously  in  that  silent  hall, 
and  the  workman  flushed  scarlet.  He  was  about 
to  burst  into  angry  speech,  but  the  minister 
stopped  him  and  said  much  as  follows : 

"I  was  trimming  my  rose-trees  the  other  day, 
when  a  green-fly  on  a  twig  astounded  me.  It 
got  up  on  its  hind  legs  and  said,  in  the  most 
curious  falsetto  voice  you  ever  heard,  '  You  're 
not  a  man !  I  can't  see  you,  and  I  don't  believe 
the  green-fly  when  they  say;  that  it  is  Man  that 


84  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

sometimes  kills  us  in  such  quantities.  Do  you 
hear? — I  hope  you  do — I  don't  believe  in  you! 
Now,  if  you're  a  man,  strike  me  dead  this 
minute ! 9 

"Well,  I  was  fairly  taken  aback.  I  thought 
at  first  that  I  was  dreaming,  or  that  I  had  not 
heard  aright.  Then  I  ran  into  the  house  and 
got  some  sticks  and  some  gauze,  and  covered 
that  twig  carefully  up  without  disturbing  any- 
thing, and  went  out  to  get  some  of  my  friends 
to  come  and  hear  that  green-fly.  But  they  only 
live  a  few  hours,  and  when  I  got  back  he  was 
dead.  I  suppose  he  died  very  wise.  I  reckon 
he  told  all  the  other  green-fly  that  he  had 
proved  he  was  right.  There  was  no  Man,  for  he 
had  not  been  stricken  dead !  It  fairly  makes  me 
laugh  now  to  think  of  that  wretched  green-fly! 

4 'My  friend,  it  is  an  insult  to  compare  you 
and  the  green-fly,  man  and  God.  The  smallest 
bacillus  known  is  a  monstrous  giant  in  size  and 
wisdom  in  relation  to  a  man  compared  with  you 
and  God.  Do  you  suppose  that  words  such  as 
yours  would  affect  God?  I  tell  you  honestly  I 
do  not  suppose  He  even  hears  you  when  you 
speak  so." 

It  was  a  smart  answer,  but,  my  dear,  I  cannot 
say  I  like  it.  I  think  I  would  have  put  it  differ- 
ently. Suppose  a  father  to  be  at  play  with  his 
little  son,  who  is  just  getting  strong  enough  to 
love  to  hit  out  at  his  father,  as  boys  will,  and 
who  is  beginning  to  think  he  is  really  strong. 


OF  THE  BEST  IN  LIFE  85 

Suddenly  the  little  fellow  gets  annoyed  because 
his  father  is  such  an  immovable  giant  and  won't 
hit  back.  His  father  is  obviously  playing  with 
him,  he  thinks,  and  he  is  big  now,  and  serious. 
He's  no  baby  now!  So  he  loses  his  temper.  "I 
won't  play  with  you,  Dadda,"  he  shouts; 
"you're  a  nasty,  horrid  dadda!  I  don't  believe 
you  can  hit  if  you  want  to!  Hit  me,  if  you 
dare !  Kill  me,  if  you  dare ! ' ' 

What  do  you  suppose  the  father  would  do? 
If  he  were  very  wise  and  loving  and  kind,  I 
think  he  would  say  nothing,  but  just  go  away. 
And  towards  the  end  of  the  day,  when  his  little 
son  was  tired  with  playing  alone  and  very  sorry 
for  himself,  he  would  come  back  and  pick  him 
up  in  his  arms,  and  carry  him  off  to  bed,  and 

tuck  him  up,  and  kiss  him. 

#  *  #  *  * 

That  is  my  answer,  dear.  The  best  in  life  is 
the  search  for  God,  and  it  does  not  matter  so 
very  much  if  one  hardly  knows  it  or  does  not 
find  Him,  for  the  best  beyond  will  be  His  Kiss. 


10.    OF  AAEON  AND  GAMALIEL 

OH  dear!  It's  a  strange  old  world!  If  I 
can  set  down  for  you  the  thoughts  that 
have  been  filling  my  head  while  jogging 
along  all  this  day  over  a  mountain  trail  all  but 
obliterated  by  the  heavy  rains  (so  that  we  had 
to  scramble  like  cats  up  rock  surfaces  with 
practically  no  foothold,  and  make  new  ways 
down  for  ourselves  over  slithery,  wet  grass), 
you  will  see  why  I  think  it  strange,  and  perhaps 
why  I  find  it  to  be  so  very,  very  old — two 
thousand  very  long  years  at  least.  But  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  can  give  you  the  impression  that 
is  left  on  my  own  mind.  For  it  is  only  an 
impression,  however  correct.  A  few  words  and 
an  attitude,  that  is  all.  Our  conversation  will 
not  strike  you  much  unless  you  realise  what  lies 
behind  it. 

We  arrived  last  night  at  an  out-station  which 
I  had  never  visited  before.  There  is  a  little 
bare,  rectangular  Church  school  there  and  a 
little  stone  hut,  both  sheltered  under  a  great 
cliff  of  rock  and  fronting  a  semicircular 
meadow  that  runs  down  to  a  stream.  The  view 
northwards  is  superb.  The  mountain  chains 
rise  ever  higher  and  higher,  one  running  into 

86 


OF  AARON  AND  GAMALIEL  87 

another,  until  the  black,  forbidding  peaks 
mingle  in  a  great  barrier  upon  which  rest  the 
clouds.  The  people  are  said  to  live  all  around, 
but  most  of  them  are  hours  away  and  quite  out 
of  sight.  The  church  and  the  hut  themselves 
seem  to  stand  in  a  vast  empty  world. 

The  catechist  had  heard  of  my  coming,  and 
had  descended  from  his  hidden  hut  on  the  top 
of  the  cliffs  behind  to  meet  me.  We  were 
strangers  to  each  other,  and  he  eager  to  see  me 
and  eager  for  what  I  would  do.  After  a  few 
greetings  he  plunged  into  the  matter  that  lay 
uppermost  in  his  mind :  ' '  Had  the  father  come 
to  examine  the  school?7' 

I  fear  the  father  had  not.  I  try  to  make  a 
point  of  talking  to  the  children  of  each  school 
I  visit  about  the  religious  teaching  they  are  sup- 
posed to  get,  but  the  business  of  examinations 
in  the  three  B's,  which  takes  a  couple  of  days  or 
more  if  one  does  all  the  standards  properly,  is 
not  much  in  my  line,  and  ought  not  to  be,  I 
think,  in  my  province.  Here  it  certainly  was 
not.  It  was  not  my  school,  and  in  any  case  I 
had  not  the  time. 

"No,"  said  I,  "I  have  come  to  shrive  the 
people  and  say  Mass."  And  at  that  he  was 
perplexed.  He  begged  my  pardon;  he  did  not 
understand.  I  repeated  myself,  and  now  used 
the  words  "Holy  Communion." 

"Oh,"  said  he,  "the  father  means  the  Sup- 
per ! ' '  And  his  eager  face  fell.  Now  I  hardly 


88  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

meant  the  Supper.  To  me  the  Holy  Com- 
munion was  instituted  at  the  last  Supper,  but 
was  not  that  supper,  and  the  Church  early  dis- 
tinguished between  the  Love  Feast,  which  was 
the  Supper,  and  the  Eucharist,  which  was  very 
soon  separated  from  it.  All  that  I  could  hardly 
explain  just  then,  but  his  use  of  the  word  told 
so  much.  Wherever  you  hear  it,  it  means  that 
the  people  are  Protestant  rather  than  Catholic. 
But  I  did  my  best.  "No,"  I  said.  "I  always 
have  my  supper  in  the  evening.  But  I  mean 
that  I  have  come  to  hear  the  people's  confes- 
sions and  give  them  the  Sacrament  of  our 
Lord's  Body  and  Blood  to-morrow  morning." 

At  this  he  still  looked  a  little  perplexed,  but 
he  said  he  was  delighted,  and  he  was  sure  the 
people  would  be.  "They  must  be  early,"  I 
said,  "as  I  have  far  to  ride  afterwards." 

"They  will  be  in  about  one  o'clock,"  he  said. 
"They  live  far  .  .  ." 

And  at  that  my  heart  sank,  for  it  told  me  a 
great  deal  that  the  people  should  be  accustomed 
to  come  in  at  one  o  'clock  to  meet  their  priest. 

Well,  I  will  cut  all  this  short.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  could  not  stay  till  past  midday  or  go  to 
the  altar  then,  if  I  did,  and  I  said  mass  the  next 
morning  with  only  the  three  of  us  present,  and 
gave  the  teacher  communion.  He  made  what 
he  called  a  confession,  but  it  was  perfectly  plain 
that  what  he  and  I  meant  by  confession  were 
two  different  things.  And  as  to  my  mass — well, 


OF  AARON  AND  GAMALIEL  89 

bless  the  dear  fellow,  he  hardly  knew  what  I 
was  about.  Cyril  knew,  however,  and  somehow 
I  had  great  joy  in  pleading  our  Saviour's  in- 
finite merit  for  that  place. 

But,  once  in  the  saddle,  thoughts  crowded  in 
my  inind.  Up  in  these  mountains,  alone,  among 
people  taught  by  me  and  used  to  me,  one  grows 
singularly  forgetful.  I  hardly  realise,  I  think, 
to  what  I  have  half  unconsciously  come  and 
what  a  cleavage  exists  between  my  work  and 
this  of  my  brother  whose  out-station  I  am  on. 
These  last  three  weeks,  for  example,  as  I  re- 
viewed them  in  my  mind,  I  began  to  perceive 
that  I  had  done  no  more  than  administer  the 
Sacraments  in  place  after  place — all  five  of 
them  that  a  priest  can  administer.  I  have  been 
riding  around  as  a  kind  of  vehicle  for  sacra- 
mental grace.  A  priest  who  so  regards  his  office 
scarcely  conceives  himself  at  all.  It  is  not  my 
words  or  my  exhortations  that  matter,  not  my 
wisdom  in  elaborating  sermons,  not  my  job  to 
examine  schools.  I  come,  in  accordance  with 
the  Divine  plan,  to  allow  the  grace  of  God  to 
flow  through  me  to  these  people.  My  main 
endeavour  is  to  keep  the  channel  clean,  and  to 
administer  zealously  and  correctly.  I  mean  I 
just  try  to  say  my  own  prayers  and  to  perform 
my  rites  as  they  should  be  performed.  That 
takes  nearly  all  the  time. 

Of  course  I  do  not  mean  that  I  have  no  regard 
to  the  faith  and  understanding  of  the  people. 


90  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

That  would  be  absurd.  But,  you  see,  the  whole 
outlook  is  different.  The  people  do  not  gather 
to  listen  to  my  preaching;  I  do  not  sit  down 
overnight  and  make  up  ingenious  and  pious  dis- 
courses out  of  the  Psalms,  and  so  on.  I  used  to 
do  that  sort  of  thing.  I  would  take  a  Psalm  and 
discover,  for  example,  that  the  words  "  Deliver 
me"  occurred  three  times.  " Deliver  me" 
"from  temptation,"  point  one;  "deliver  meM 
"in  the  mire  and  clay,"  i.e.,  in  sin,  point  two; 
"deliver  me" — "in  the  time  of  trouble,"  point 
three.  On  that,  with  introduction  and  conclu- 
sion and  with  appropriate  illustrations,  I  would 
make  up  a  discourse,  and  we  would  sing  some 
nice  hymns.  But  now  it  is  quite  different.  I 
hear  confessions,  and  try  to  deal  with  each  soul 
as  it  shows,  however  imperfectly,  its  need.  I 
say  some  simple,  obvious  mass,  like  that  of  the 
Sacred  Heart ;  and,  crucifix  or  picture  in  hand, 
I  point  out  briefly  what  is  the  wounding  of  His 
Heart  still,  and  how  on  this  very  rude  altar  in 
a  few  minutes  the  same  Christ  will  offer  Him- 
self as  the  still  wounded  Lamb  for  our  salva- 
tion. I  hold  up  the  crucifix  between  the  seated 
people  and  their  God  in  Heaven.  "So,"  I  say, 
"Christ  on  the  Cross  interposed  between  the 
world  and  God's  wrath  on  account  of  sin." 
Then  I  lift  the  chalice  and  the  paten.  "Here," 
I  say,  "will  be  in  a  moment  that  same  Christ, 
and  I  shall  set  Him  again  between  you  and  that 
same  wrath.  Not  that  God  is  wrath;  He  is 


OF  AARON  AND  GAMALIEL  91 

Love,  such  Love  that  His  Victim,  dispelling  the 
black  clouds  that  gather  on  account  of  sin,  will 
once  more  enable  you,  the  children  of  God,  to 
see  the  smiling  of  the  Father's  Face." 

My  dear,  my  pen  has  carried  me  away,  but  do 
you  see  the  difference?  I  remember  once,  as 
a  young  man,  speaking  on  an  ingenious  acrostic 
(the  kind  of  thing  we  loved)  which  ran: 

"3  esus 
E  xactly 
S  uits 
U  s 
S  inners." 

But  do  you  know  I  always  missed  the  true 
explanation  of  that  second  word?  He  does 
exactly  suit  us  sinners,  not  because  the  remem- 
brance of  Him  moves  us  to  sorrow  and  good 
resolutions,  not  because  He  did  something 
years  ago  in  which  we  can  mystically  and  retro- 
spectively share,  not  as  if  we  were  all  feelings 
and  souls.  He  exactly  suits  us  because  we  are 
men  of  minds  and  bodies  to-day,  and  to-day  He 
will  do  for  us  visibly  and  invisibly,  corporally 
and  spiritually,  mind  and  body,  in  other  words 
sacramentally,  what  God  has  ordained  as  the 
method  of  salvation. 

Now  here  you  have  two  totally  distinct 
religions,  perfectly  exemplified  in  my  little  visit 
to  that  out-station.  For  the  moment  I  am  not 
writing  to  you  as  to  my  view  of  the  right  or 


92  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

wrong  of  either,  but  I  do  want  yon  to  see  what 
I  mean.  I  came  thinking  myself  a  doctor  of 
spiritual  medicines;  I  was  expected  as  a 
prophet.  I  came  to  do  things ;  I  was  expected 
to  say  things.  I  came  to  work  in  virtue  of  my 
office;  I  was  expected  by  virtue  of  my  colour 
and  education.  I  came  to  teach  the  Christians 
incidentally,  the  heathen  directly;  I  was  ex- 
pected by  both  classes  in  the  same  way.  I  came 
as  a  son  of  Aaron,  a  Levite ;  I  was  expected  as 
a  son  of  Gamaliel,  a  Eabbi. 

You  might,  of  course,  argue  that  I  ought  to 
have  come  as  both,  and  that  it  is  the  wisdom  of 
the  Church  of  England  to  keep  the  mean  be- 
tween the  two  extremes;  and  in  the  latter 
matter,  at  any  rate,  you  would  have  been  right. 
That  is  precisely  Anglicanism;  that  is  un- 
doubtedly what  my  brother  of  this  missionary 
diocese  would  say.  But  I  feel  that  this  attempt 
on  the  part  of  the  Anglican  Church  has  been  a 
sorry  failure,  and  that  nowhere  is  that  failure 
better  seen  than  in  the  Mission  Field.  Here,  for 
example,  where  tHe  Anglican  view  has  been 
taught,  the  expectation  of  the  prophet  far  out- 
weighs the  coming  of  the  priest.  And  it  always 
tends  to  do  so,  because  you  cannot  hold  logically 
and  inevitably  as  a  matter  of  fact  that  the  two 
offices  are  of  equal  importance.  If  you  do,  then 
the  sacramental  side  sinks,  and  finally  sinks  out 
of  sight.  For  if  the  Sacraments  are  but  means 
of  grace,  I  doubt  that  they  are  such  good  means 


OF  AARON  AND  GAMALIEL  93 

as  a  fervent  discourse  or  a  wise  examination  of 
children,  especially  if  one  has  scarcely  time  to 
do  both. 

But  if  the  Sacraments  are  the  actual  means 
of  salvation,  then  the  rest  is  but  a  secondary 
help  to  them.  If,  for  example,  the  Sacrament 
of  Penance — Confession — is  the  Divine  plan  for 
the  forgiveness  of  sins,  then  naturally,  what- 
ever I  do,  I  must  do  that ;  if,  on  the  other  hand, 
it  is  only  a  help  to  some  people  who  cannot  quiet 
their  consciences,  then  probably  a  good  sound 
sermon  on  penitence  and  the  recitation  of  the 
General  Confession  will  suit  the  case.  What 
doctor,  attending  a  man  with  a  broken  limb, 
would  omit  first  and  at  once  to  set  it?  Neces- 
sary as  the  giving  of  a  good  dietary  would  be, 
that  would  be  pretty  useless  without  the  other. 
His  directions  would  be  secondary  and  supple- 
mentary to  his  bone-setting.  And  the  bone- 
setting  is  to  a  Catholic  the  Sacrament,  the 
dietary  the  sermon. 

Now  underneath  all  this  lies  a  much  deeper 
thing,  I  think,  a  thing  which  is  the  crux  of  the 
whole  matter.  To  me  it  seems  that  at  the  bot- 
tom of  Protestantism  is  Eationalism,  and  at  the 
bottom  of  Catholicism  Revelation,  however 
much  the  one  may  be  disguised,  or  the  other 
defended  by  reason.  Eevelation  involves  the 
hypothesis  that  God  has  shown  something  to 
men  which  they  would  not  have  found  out  by 
themselves,  that  He  has  committed  something 


94  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

to  them,  given  them  a  plan,  arranged  a  scheme. 
He  has  shown  what  He  wants  and  how  He 
wants  it — that  is  the  point;  and  the  conclusion 
is  that  this  must  be  safeguarded,  continued,  and 
obeyed.  Man's  primary  duty  will  lie  in  these 
three  things,  and  however  much  he  may  justify 
them  by  rational  arguments,  or  apply  in  their 
working  rational  intelligence,  the  fundamental 
idea  is  that  the  scheme  is  not  his  and  does  not 
need  his  defence.  Thus  to  the  Catholic  Christ 
came  into  the  world  and  founded  the  Church 
and  the  Sacramental  System,  that  System  safe- 
guarded by  that  Church,  to  be  a  royal  ladder 
into  heaven.  Church  and  System  are  some- 
thing bigger  than  ourselves  and  beyond  our- 
selves. There  are  rational  arguments  by  which 
they  may  be  explained,  justified,  and  all  but 
proved,  but  ultimately  "The  Word  was  made 
Flesh,"  "Upon  this  Rock  I  will  build  My 
Church ' '  —  these  are  superrational,  super- 
human, supernatural.  It  is  ours  to  fall  in  with 
them,  to  serve  them.  And  the  minister  of  such 
a  theory  is  not  only  of  necessity  a  priest,  but  a 
priest  after  a  certain  order.  This  Divine 
scheme  has  its  human  side,  and  the  human  side, 
because  it  is  human,  must  be  regular,  ordered, 
and  in  a  sense,  rigid.  No  man  or  body  can  as- 
sume such  a  priesthood,  and  determine  the  man- 
ner of  its  assumption.  The  stone  has  been  laid; 
the  faith  has  been  delivered ;  the  one  cannot  be 
dug  up  and  settled  down  in  a  new  order,  and 


OF  AARON  AND  GAMALIEL  95 

the  other  cannot  be  reconsidered  and  corrected. 
Indeed,  it  is  of  the  essence  of  things  that  if  the 
faith  needs  correction,  then  the  faith  has  failed. 
Now,  Protestantism,  although  most  of  its  sects 
would  claim  some  such  supernatural  basis,  has, 
in  point  of  fact,  relaid  the  stone  and  reconsidered 
the  faith.  Of  course  each  sect  believes  that  it 
has  relaid  the  stone  according  to  the  since  mis- 
placed original,  and  corrected  the  faith  back  to 
its  original  purity,  but  the  very  fact  that  such 
relaying  and  correcting  have  been  carries  with 
it  the  assumption  of  Eationalism.  Some- 
body— some  man — judged  that  there  had  been  a 
mistake,  and  that  something  else  was  intended. 
There  are  about  300  different  Protestant  sects ; 
that  is,  there  are  about  300  judgments  correct- 
ing what  has  come  to  be  back  to  what  it  is 
judged  to  have  been.  And  the  inevitable  fol- 
lows. Luther  judged  that  the  original  was  not 
what  he  saw  the  Church  of  his  day  to  be,  but 
after  another  model ;  it  is  obviously  open  to  the 
sons  of  Luther  to  judge  that  he  was  mistaken. 
They  have  so  judged,  as  likewise  have  the  sons 
of  Calvin,  Wesley,  Spurgeon,  Fox,  Cranmer, 
and  a  host  more  of  their  spiritual  fathers.  In 
fact,  this  work  of  judging  has  become  the 
primary  work  of  a  Christian.  So  Luther  said, 
"It  belongs  to  every  Christian  to  know  and  to 
judge  for  himself  of  doctrine. "  Thus  Eation- 
alism, the  application  of  human  reason  and 
knowledge,  modifies  what  is  alleged  to  be  the 


96  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

original  deposit.  And  since  admittedly  human 
knowledge  is  growing,  it  stands  to  reason  that 
the  dogmas  of  religion  are  in  a  state  of  flux.  In 
a  word,  there  are  no  dogmas,  which  is,  indeed, 
the  pronouncement  of  modern  reasonable 
Protestants.  And  in  the  Mission  Field,  how- 
ever much  with  child  races  we  have  to  be 
authoritative,  our  end  is  that  they  shall  come  to 
think  for  themselves,  and  determine  for  them- 
selves, while  our  plan  of  campaign  will  tend  to 
be  moral  exhortation  far  more  than  dogmatic 
ministrations  of  rites  and  ceremonies. 

Of  course  Catholicism  itself  may  be  simply 
the  result  of  the  rationalism  of  St.  Paul,  as  the 
German  critics  would  have  us  believe,  or  the 
result  of  the  rationalism  of  Greek  philosophers 
in  the  first  four  centuries,  as  Mr.  H.  G.  Wells 
insists.  But  even  so,  the  Catholic  is  essentially 
a  person  who  does  not  rationalise,  and  he  has 
always  done  his  best  not  to  do  so.  To-day  he 
acts  still  as  if  such  rationalisation  was  contrary 
to  the  nature  of  things,  and  hence  the  conduct 
of  the  Catholic  priest,  as  chiefly  an  adminis- 
trator of  sacred  rites,  in  the  Mission  Field. 
Catholicism  is  essentially  different  from 
Protestantism  because  of  this  point  of  view. 
After  all,  the  Catholic  attitude  has  passed  into  a 
proverb:  "Kome  changes  not."  Driven  to  ex- 
plain the  difference  between  Peter  and  Pius,  a 
Newman  urges  development,  growth.  Driven 
to  defend  the  insinuation  that  non-rational  be- 


OF  AARON  AND  GAMALIEL  97 

ings  ought  to  be  in  a  lunatic  asylum,  a  Benson 
urges  that  the  rational  proofs  of  Faith  are  not 
so  much  non-rational  as  supernatural.  But, 
either  way  or  any  way,  the  stubborn  Catholic 
will  not  admit  that  his  religion  is  of  human  de- 
vising, and  in  that  very  refusal,  be  it  originally 
right  or  wrong,  he  is  involved  in  the  con- 
sequences of  the  acceptance  of  Bevelation.  He 
is  chained  to  the  Apostolic  Succession,  and  his 
religion  is  the  Sacramental  System. 

The  Church  of  England  attempted,  it  seems 
to  me,  to  run  with  the  hare  and  hunt  with  the 
hounds.  The  Eeformation  Anglican  Fathers 
rationalised  about  the  seven  Sacraments,  and 
decided  that  two  only  were  of  Christ's  revela- 
tion and  thus  "generally  necessary  for  salva- 
tion.'7 They  rationalised  about  Episcopacy, 
and  decided  that  the  Pope  was  of  human  origin, 
but  Prelacy  of  Divine.  Across  the  Border  their 
brethren  rationalised  a  bit  more,  and  made 
Prelacy  human  and  the  Presbyter  Divine.  And 
across  the  Border  back  again  the  Puritans 
rationalised  that  no  ministry  was  Divine  at  all. 
One  and  all  they  were  rationalists. 

Incidentally  there  is  no  greater  rationalist 
than  the  non-Catholic,  who  maintains  that  the 
words  of  the  sixteenth  century  Bible  are 
verbally  and  infallibly  the  revelation  of  God. 
He  is  the  rational  son  of  Luther.  That  re- 
former, declining  to  believe  that  the  Church  was 
the  pillar  and  ground  of  the  truth,  appealed  to 


98  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

the  Bible  or  to  such  books  of  the  Catholic  Bible 
as  he  himself  selected ;  but  he  did  not  rationalise 
much  about  the  nature  of  his  new  authority. 
His  sons,  driven  to  defend  themselves,  evolved 
a  theory  of  verbal  inspiration  which  was 
neither  his  nor  the  Church's,  and  which,  of  all 
theories,  is  the  least  possible  to-day.  Yet  such 
rationalists  are  they  that  now  the  shrinking 
relic  is  driven  to  attempting  to  prove  by  ingen- 
ious twistings  that  Moses  anticipated  Newton 
and  that  the  author  of  Genesis  was  a  scientific 
historian,  and  then  demands  the  acceptance  of 
irrational  dogmas  upon  the  authority  of  a  few 
specially  selected  and  privately  explained  texts. 

This  is  a  dull  letter.  Will  you  even  read  it,  I 
wonder?  Forgive  me.  Up  and  down  the  hills, 
plodding  along  at  not  much  more  than  a  foot- 
pace, I  have  been  thinking  it  all  through  again 
this  morning,  and  it  will  out.  That  poor  little 
catechist  on  the  out-station,  how  surprised  he 
would  be  if  he  knew — he  and  his  supper !  But 
it  does  so  matter  to  me.  Is  it  a  supper,  or  is  it 
the  mass?  who  shall  say?  If  there  be  no  one  to 
say,  and  if  I  have  to  go  back  to  musty  books 
and  bewildering  histories  to  find  out,  I  shall 
cast  in  my  vote  for  the  supper  quickly  enough. 

But  it  seems  to  me  that  there  is  one  arresting, 
amazing,  bewildering,  imperious  Personality 
who  dares  to  speak  in  this  world  of  little  men, 
a  Personality  that  moves  with  a  strange 
secrecy,  and  yet  may  be  found  easily  enough  on 


OF  AARON  AND  GAMALIEL  99 

every  highway  and  in  every  back  lane  of  the 
world,  a  Personality  as  old  as  the  Seven  Hills 
and  yet  so  radiantly  young.  If  you  have  not 
come  across  this  mysterious,  wonderful  Being, 
it  is  almost  useless  for  me  to  write  to  you,  and 
I  do  not  suppose  Almighty  God  will  hold  you  to 
blame.  Yet  it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  been 
called  aside  into  the  garden  and  have  been 
shown  wonderful  things,  incredible  though  it 
seems  to  me  that  I  should  have  been  called  at 
all,  wonderful  things,  amazing  things,  super- 
natural things,  things  of  beauty  beyond  the 
glory  of  sun,  moon,  and  stars,  things  of  wisdom, 
which  I  can  only  see  to  be  very  wise,  tender 
things  of  which  I  cannot  speak  even  to  you. 
And  it  is  no  good — I  cannot  resist  the  conclu- 
sion. " Never  man  spoke  as  this  Man."  "He 
hath  done  all  things  well."  "He  maketh  the 
deaf  to  hear  and  the  dumb  to  speak."  "He 
bindeth  up  the  broken-hearted,  and  He  giveth 
medicine  to  heal  their  sicknesses."  Such  sen- 
tences were  written  of  the  Christ,  and  such  are 
true  again  to-day.  But  I  cannot  understand  it ; 
this  wisdom  is  beyond  me,  this  medicine  a 
bitter  thing.  Yet  to  whom  else  shall  we  go? 
Here,  at  least,  are  words  of  eternal  life. 


11.    OF  A  VILLAGE  UNDER  THE  MOON 

THEY  always  say  there  is  no  loneliness 
like  that  of  a  stranger  in  a  big  European 
city  in  which  he  knows  no  one,  but  that 
entirely  depends  on  the  money  in  his  pocket.  If 
he  has  plenty,  he  need  not  be  lonely  for  long. 
I  have  been  in  a  good  few  big  European  cities 
without  a  friend,  and  even  without  much  money, 
but  I  have  never  felt  really  lonely — at  least,  not 
more  lonely  than  I  wanted  to  feel  and  rather 
enjoyed.  The  world  is,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
superficially  very  friendly.  The  great  axiom 
that  man  is  a  social  animal  lies  deep  down  in 
most  men,  and  a  cheerful  person  can  make 
acquaintances  in  an  hotel,  or  a  bar,  or  a  church, 
or  the  street  as  easily  as  possible.  And  quite 
often  he  can  make  friends,  and  the  best  of 
friends,  too,  the  friends  that  chance  has  thrown 
his  way,  and  not  the  friends  who  have  sought 
him  out  because  of  what  his  profession  may  be 
or  his  social  rank  or  his  circumstances.  Even 
more,  they  may  be  the  sort  of  friends  one  would 
never  make  in  any  other  way,  and  a  man  may 
come  to  see  God  in  the  soul  of  a  street-girl,  or 
humanity  in  the  heart  of  a  capitalist,  if  he  is  all 
by  himself  in  a  city. 

100 


OF  A  VILLAGE  UNDER  .TtfF,  MOON  i'ci 

No,  there  are  many  worse  lonelinesses  than 
this,  and  there  is  one  I  am  always  experiencing 
on  trek  and  from  which  I  cannot  get  away.  Do 
you  know  the  cheerfulness  of  an  African  village 
on  a  fine  night  of  a  full  moon?  The  huts  lie 
scattered  on  the  hillside  without  order,  and  all 
opening  eastwards.  Each  household  has  two 
or  three  such  huts,  often  two  at  least  knit  up  by 
the  big  semicircular  reed-fence  called  the 
lelapa,  and  the  little  paths  thread  in  and  out  of 
the  big  boulders  between  each  group.  The  chief 
will  have  his  big  cattle-kraal  of  piled  stones 
below  his  collection  of  huts,  and  most  likely 
there  will  be  several  more  smaller  ones  up  the 
hillside.  The  sun  has  set,  then ;  the  girls  have 
come  back  with  the  water,  and  the  boys  from  the 
milking  with  the  brown  jars  of  milk,  for  you 
know  no  woman  may  milk,  or  even  enter  the 
cattle-kraal  when  the  cattle  are  there,  on  the 
Berg.  "Thou  shalt  not  seethe  a  kid  in  his 
mother's  milk,"  says  the  Old  Testament,  a 
piece  of  sympathetic  magic,  according  to  Pro- 
fessor Frazer,  which  has  its  like  in  our  modern 
African  custom.  Anyway  the  cattle  are  kraaled, 
and  within  the  reed  fences  the  cheerful  dung- 
fires  are  lit.  Cyril  has  brought  me  my  porridge, 
and  it  is  not  yet  time  for  prayers.  I  wander 
out  under  the  moon,  and  I  feel  terribly,  awfully 
alone. 

The  air  is  full  of  little  noises.  The  cows  in 
the  kraal  are  licking  their  calves,  and  all  to- 


102  PILGRIM  PAPERS  * 

gether  chew  the  cud  with  a  slow  sound  of  con- 
tentment. There  is  cheerful  loud  talk  from  the 
chief's  house,  and  the  laugh  of  a  woman  away 
up  on  the  hill  in  a  far  group  of  huts.  A  band  of 
children,  the  moon  shining  on  their  bodies,  run 
out  of  the  shadows  and  chase  each  other,  then 
dive  in  at  the  low  reed  doors  and  cuddle  up  to- 
gether round  the  boiling  pot  on  the  fire.  You 
can  hear  their  childish  talk  inside,  but  if  you  are 
I,  you  do  not  understand  most  of  it,  any  more 
than  I  can  understand  what  the  men  are  saying 
to  Cyril  in  the  dark  yonder,  although  I  can 
catch  a  clear  question  or  reply  of  his  occasion- 
ally. The  village  Sesuto  on  such  nights  is 
abbreviated,  colloquial,  friendly.  It  is  the 
chaffing  talk  of  an  inn-parlour  at  home,  the 
mysterious,  jovial  slang  of  a  cheerful  club.  I 
can  get  along  on  the  lines  of  the  grammar  or 
prayer  book,  but  neither  (the  sorrow  of  it!) 
are  really  human  lines. 

I  have  told  you  of  times  and  villages  in  which 
I  have  sat  friendly  by  a  fire  or  talked  with  chil- 
dren, but  I  realise  to-night  how  rare  they  are. 
True,  the  children  playing  in  the  moonlight  are 
not  afraid  of  me,  and  they  will  smile  if  I  go 
near,  but  I  am  the  mysterious  white  stranger, 
and  the  play  will  drift  off  if  I  move.  Heathen 
men  round  the  fire  will  lapse  into  silence  if  I 
come  up,  or,  more  educated,  ask  me  questions 
that  often  veil  a  half -felt  racial  hostility;  Chris- 
tians will  speak  cautiously,  fearful  lest  they 


OF  A   VILLAGE  UNDER  THE  MOON  103 

give  their  own  folk  away,  never  forgetful  that  I 
am  white  and  a  priest.  Nine  nights  out  of  ten, 
in  most  villages  anyway,  I  have  no  friend. 

Two  things  fight  against  me:  my  colour  and 
my  office.  Mr.  Cripps  has  a  yarn  of  a  white 
man  who  had  to  take  to  Mashona  dress  and 
customs  to  avoid  the  law,  and  I  often  wish  I 
could  do  something  like  that.  I  would  so  like  to 
get  inside  my  people.  Possibly  I  never  should ; 
possibly,  if  I  did,  I  should  wish  I  had  not.  Pos- 
sibly I  might  even  come  to  envy  Mr.  Cripps ' 
hero's  fate  of  the  mistaken  grains  of  white 
powder  and  the  lonely  little  krantz.  But  I  wish 
I  could  try. 

The  priest,  too — I  wonder  if  you  realise  how 
often  he  is  terribly  alone.  I  do  not  know  which 
is  the  worse,  to  be  treated  by  others  as  if  one 
were  one  among  them  or  to  be  treated  plainly 
as  something  different.  If  the  first,  one  is  con- 
tinually being  stabbed  by  the  different  outlooks 
and  values  of  men  in  the  world,  and  one  is 
always  half  longing,  half  dreading,  to  let  one- 
self go ;  if  the  second,  oh,  my  dear,  but  that  bur- 
den is  so  hard  to  bear!  Speaking  quite  truly 
and  reverently,  Jesus  must  have  felt  it  so. 
Never  was  there  lonely  man  as  He.  God-Man, 
on  earth — what  isolation!  We  priests  are  the 
only  ones  who  can  know. 

But  even  this  is  not  all  in  my  case.  To-night 
I  climbed  up  above  the  village  and  perched  my- 
self on  a  big  stone  to  see  it  all.  And  I  saw  so 


104  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

much  more  than  the  village.  Here  am  I,  neither 
a  good  Anglican  nor  a  recognised  Catholic,  the 
suspect  of  my  own  communion  and  the  outcast 
of  the  other.  It  does  so  hurt  to  feel  that  there 
is  no  place  in  what  ought  to  be  home  for  me.  I 
know  I  seem  to  many  of  my  brethren  and 
superiors  a  disloyal,  wilful,  disobedient  son,  so 
I  do  not  blame  them ;  besides,  if  the  truth  must 
out,  they  seem  to  me  singularly  fussy,  cob- 
webby, blind,  and,  to  be  quite  honest,  dull,  and, 
indeed,  they  would  be  incredibly  foolish  if  they 
were  not  glad  that  I  am  on  the  Berg,  more  or 
less  out  of  harm's  way,  and  certainly  buried. 
But,  despite  all  mutual  understanding,  the  fact 
remains.  It  is  terribly  lonely,  dear,  to  know 
oneself  in  a  communion  but  not  of  it,  and  to  feel 
that  work  done  is  work  that  the  leaders  will 
prefer  not  to  own.  This  is  not  a  grumble,  mark 
you.  I  do  not  honestly  think  that  it  has  made 
any  difference.  But  there  it  is,  and  very  lonely 
on  the  Berg. 

It  is  in  the  evenings  such  as  this  that  I  feel  it 
most.  By  day,  riding  along,  I  hardly  even  mind 
not  having  a  friend  to  talk  to,  there  is  so  much 
to  see  and  think  about.  Besides,  I  think  I  am 
growing  accustomed  to  not  having  friends. 
"  There  is  no  friend  for  the  stranger  save  the 
stranger " — that  is  a  Eussian  saying  of  great 
beauty.  Still  I  have  a  great  number  of  friendly 
acquaintances,  more  than  most  people,  perhaps, 
for  I  always  seem  to  make  such  easily,  and 


OF  A  VILLAGE  UNDER  THE   MOON  105 

always  did.  But  friends  are  different,  and  they 
grow  fewer.  I  remember  a  priest  in  Africa,  a 
tall,  spare,  kindly  man  who  was  looking  in  the 
face  a  slow  death  from  disease,  talking  once  to 
me  and  saying  that  he  found,  as  one  grew  older, 
that  one  came  to  rely  less  and  less  on  friends. 
A  man  made  friends,  and  thought  he  had  made 
them  for  his  life;  and  then  one  married,  and 
another  got  into  some  other  environment,  and 
slowly,  imperceptibly,  without  either  wishing  it, 
friendship  faded  away.  (I  shall  never  forget 
that  he  said  it  quite  bravely,  with  a  smile.)  Is 
that  not  extraordinarily  true!  Of  course  there 
are  people  whom  one  likes  immensely  and  with 
whom  it  is  possible  really  to  renew  a  friendship 
from  time  to  time,  but  the  long  and  the  short  of 
it  is  that  it  seems  to  me  one  grows  to  realise  the 
inevitableness  of  being  alone.  We  began  alone, 
and  we  certainly  end  alone,  but  I  think  one 
comes  to  feel  more  and  more  how  true  it  is  that 
nobody  really  understands,  nobody  really  sym- 
pathises, and  that  nobody  can. 

The  moulding  years  ought  to  make  one  more 
indifferent  to  this,  I  think,  because  they  ought 
to  make  one  stronger,  and  fashion  one's  mind 
to  resolute  thinking,  and  to  decisions  which  one 
feels  are  right  for  oneself  at  all  events.  At 
school  and  college,  and  for  some  years  after, 
one  wonders  continually  how  others  will  criti- 
cise, and  one  strives  to  gain  a  place  to  justify 
oneself.  A  man,  at  any  rate,  meeting  the  con- 


106  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

flict  of  ideas  in  religion  and  social  life,  is 
anxious  about  them,  and  wants  continually  to 
know  what  other  people  think.  He  wants,  too, 
to  share  his  conclusions,  to  strengthen  himself 
by  making  friends  with  whom  he  can  breast  the 
current  of  life.  But  as  the  years  go  by  he  gets 
not  so  much  disappointed,  but  less  interested. 
He  begins  to  feel  that  others  cannot  help  over- 
much, and  that  it  does  not  much  matter  if  they 
do  not.  He  himself  for  himself  must  looK  up 
into  the  eyes  of  God,  and  it  is  no  use,  then, 
looking  deprecatingly  round  to  see  what  one's 
friends  are  doing. 

Even  love  looks  to  me  (at  least  to-night)  the 
last  and  most  desperate  attempt  to  escape  our 
inevitable  loneliness.  The  man  and  the  woman 
look  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  they  think  they 
see  understanding  and  union  for  all  time.  They 
always  say  how  they  would  like  to  get  right 
away  by  themselves  and  just  live  for  each 
other  all  the  time.  Surely  every  one  in  love  has 
felt  that.  In  heroic  novels  the  man  wants  his 
girl  to  help  him  to  do  heroic  deeds,  and  so  on, 
but  only  in  novels,  I  think.  He  never  really 
wants  that,  for  when  he  is  in  love  he  does  not 
care  two  straws  about  heroic  deeds.  Nature  is 
not  thinking  of  heroic  deeds,  and  she  is  too 
strong  for  both  of  them.  They  may  come  back, 
as  it  were,  and  possibly  hand  to  hand,  to  the 
conquest  of  life,  but  at  the  moment  all  they 
want  is  to  forget  the  world  in  each  other. 


OF  A   VILLAGE   UNDER  THE   MOON  107 

Of  course  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  think  the 
sense  of  alliance  is  chiefly  an  illusion.  It  is  not 
merely  that  the  current  of  life  tends  to  bring 
different  duties  and  influences  in  their  way,  but 
deep  down,  when  Nature  is  tired  of  them,  hav- 
ing fulfilled  her  purpose,  they  rub  their  eyes 
and  wake  up  as  from  a  dream  to  find  that  each 
has  a  separate  soul  and  a  lonely  one.  Possibly 
those  people  who  seem  to  be  able  to  forget  that 
they  have  a  soul  at  all  never  feel  this,  but  I  do 
not  think  there  are  many  such. 

If  this  is  so,  what  do  you  suppose  one  ought 
to  do?  The  Berg  teaches,  I  think,  especially  in 
a  native  village  by  night.  The  great,  lonely 
hills,  the  silent,  lonely  stars,  the  dumb,  uncom- 
plaining earth,  all  speak.  They  tell  you  just  to 
face  the  facts,  and  not  complain.  They  tell  you 
not  to  hedge  and  fight  against  the  truth,  but  to 
go  out  and  on  and  to  take  what  comes  of  friend- 
ship and  of  love  gladly,  but  undeceived.  There 
is  no  final  shelter  for  one's  naked  soul.  Our 
mother's  skirts  sheltered  us  when  we  were 
kiddies,  but  only  for  a  while.  So  it  is  with 
everything  and  every  one,  until  one  comes  at 
last  to  see  that  one  may  hide  in  God,  but  never 
from  Him. 


12.    OF  THE  LOVE  OF  GOD 

MY  dear,  a  very  curious  and  tender  little 
affair  occurred  this  morning,  on  which 
I  have  been  meditating  all  day.  There 
is  nothing  in  it,  really,  or  I  suppose  not,  and  yet 
a  mystic  would  certainly  feel  otherwise.  How 
I  wish  one  knew  if  Almighty  God  really  plots 
these  things !  The  Gospel  is  not  a  sure  guide, 
for  if  we  are  told  that  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the 
ground  without  our  Father,  the  inference  cer- 
tainly is  that  the  fall  of  the  Tower  of  Siloam 
was  not  designed.  Yet  nothing  can  occur  out- 
side His  Will,  and  I  suppose  all  things  are  but 
shadows  of  reality.  So  it  may  be  that  I  saw 
what  I  was  meant  to  see,  and  that  I  understand 
what  I  was  meant  to  understand.  At  any  rate, 
this  was  the  way  of  it. 

We  had  been  riding,  Cyril  and  I,  for  the 
whole  morning  along  the  high  path  that  leads  to 
the  north.  It  is  a  hot,  stony,  trying  road,  at  a 
level  of  some  nine  thousand  feet,  and  the 
ground  is  barer  there  than  any  for  miles 
around.  There  is  a  view,  it  is  true,  a  view  to 
the  right  of  the  border  peaks,  across  a  wide, 
hard  valley,  and  to  the  left  a  tumbled  mass  of 
mountains  that  melt  into  the  horizon.  The  sky 

108 


OF  THE  LOVE  OF  GOD  109 

is  truly  a  huge  inverted  bowl  over  all.  Not  a 
cloud  flecked  it  to-day,  and  I,  with  a  slight  touch 
of  fever,  felt  it  to  be  brooding  and  terrible.  I 
have  ridden  this  path  and  sung  along  it  as  I 
went,  deeming  the  heavens  a  perfect  parable  of 
the  Love  of  God,  so  immense,  eternal,  and  all 
covering.  I  have  felt  how  one  cannot  escape 
from  the  Love  of  God,  or  change  it,  and  how, 
no  matter  what  one  does  beneath,  still  beyond 
the  imagination,  north,  south,  east,  and  west, 
God  is  Love.  The  very  clouds,  earth-born 
things,  are  no  part  of  that  infinite  blue  space 
where  the  light  of  countless  suns  passes  eter- 
nally on  swift  errands  of  life. 

But  it  was  all  otherwise  to-day.  I  was  very 
tired  and  very  hot,  and  my  head  ached.  The 
ponies  seemed  to  travel  so  slowly,  and  yet  it 
was  impossible  to  speed  them  up.  I  made  rest- 
less, irritated  efforts,  and  then  the  great  scorch- 
ing vault  overwhelmed  me,  and  I  held  the  reins 
in  loose  fingers  and  rode  in  growing  pain.  I 
thought  the  sky  was  still  like  God,  but  to-day 
He  was  inexorable  and  pitiless,  as  He  so  often 
seems.  But  is  He  ever? 

At  any  rate,  towards  midday  we  reached  a 
place  where  the  road  curved  to  the  right  to 
avoid  a  sharp  face  of  rock.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  to  off-saddle  there  might  offer  a  chance  of 
shade  in  some  crevice  of  that  cliff,  and  so  I 
called  to  Cyril,  and  dismounted.  I  staggered 
along  to  the  left  over  broken  and  falling 


110  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

ground,  and  found  what  I  wanted,  a  small  cave 
that  offered  a  refuge  from  the  sun.  In  my 
flask  was  a  little  lukewarm  tea,  so  I  had  a  drink 
and  lay  down  to  sleep  for  half  an  hour  if  I 
could.  But  I  could  not  sleep  for  a  long  time. 
I  lay  with  closed  eyes  and  aching  head,  and  I 
dare  not  tell  you  all  I  thought.  Men  are  crea- 
tures of  mood  universally,  I  suppose,  but  some 
of  us  are  worse  than  others.  There  are  times 
when  I  cannot  see  what  end  is  served  by  my 
existence,  and  when  I  am  all  one  great  revolt. 
Yet  how  one  dreads  to  die !  It  is  curious.  One 
may  not  fear  the  beyond;  one  may  not  shrink, 
I  think,  from  the  passing;  but  one  dreads  to 
leave  this  grim  school  with  all  the  problems  un- 
solved, and  the  discipline  not  learned.  It  could 
only  mean  worse  on  the  other  side,  and  maybe 
the  eternal  loss  of  all  our  dreams. 

Well,  then,  I  suppose  I  dozed  off.  At  any 
rate,  I  woke  up  later  feeling  better,  but  thirsty ; 
and  sitting  up  to  see  if  I  could  find  a  spring 
somewhere,  I  saw  what  I  had  not  somehow 
noticed  before.  A  few  hundred  yards  away  was 
a  break  in  the  face  of  the  cliff,  and  growing  up 
out  of  it,  as  often  happens  in  the  Berg,  were 
some  wild  poplars,  whose  shimmering  leaves 
just  appeared  above  the  rocks.  I  thought  that 
a  spring  might  well  be  there,  and  I  made  for  the 
place,  walking  slowly  in  the  heat.  Skirting 
some  huge  boulders,  I  could  see  at  last  up  the 
crevasse,  and  noticed  at  once  that  the  place  had 


OF  THE  LOVE  OF  GOD  111 

been  converted  into  a  cattle  kraal.  The  face  of 
the  hill  sloped  over  except  where  the  split  oc- 
curred, and  a  low  wall  of  stone  had  been  built 
out  round  it  to  enclose  a  sheltered  spot.  At  one 
corner  the  wall  reached  the  cliff ;  at  the  other  it 
stopped  at  the  thick  press  of  young  poplars. 
And  there  was  a  break  in  the  middle  of  it  for 
the  beasts  to  enter. 

I  moved  forward  to  that  break  idly,  for  no 
water  could  be  immediately  there,  and  there, 
in  the  very  door,  stood  stock-still  with  surprise. 
Where  the  poplars  grew  right  at  the  cliff's  foot 
sat  a  young  native  woman,  and  she  had  a  baby 
at  her  breast.  Behind  her,  staring  down  at  her, 
was  a  native  in  a  blanket,  leaning  on  a  stick,  and 
I  could  not  see  his  face  in  the  shadow;  while  in 
front,  with  some  half-dozen  sheep  of  the  kraal, 
was  a  herd-boy,  a  wisp  of  rag  about  his  middle, 
squatting  there  on  his  hams,  his  back  to  me,  and 
a  gourd  of  water  in  his  hands.  It  was  as  if  he 
offered  a  gift. 

None  of  us  moved  at  all  while  the  seconds 
slipped  by.  I  stood  there  in  the  sun,  and 
emotion  flooded  through  me.  Oh,  I  daresay  it 
was  stupid  beyond  words,  but  it  was  so  abso- 
lutely a  nativity.  There  was  nothing  missing, 
nothing  wrong,  not  even  my  hard,  stubborn 
heart  and  my  bitter  thoughts.  In  the  moment 
of  my  thought  of  God's  aloofness,  there  had 
been  given  me  a  vision  of  His  humanity. 

We  hear  so  much  in  these  days  of  the  fashion- 


112  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

ing  of  God  to  human  imagination.  Onr  thinkers 
are  always  pushing  Him  farther  and  farther 
away,  till  we  are  told  that  just  as  it  was  the 
half-savage  thought  of  Moses  that  conceived  he 
had  seen  God's  "back  parts/'  so  it  is  our  still 
anthropomorphic  conceptions  that  allow  us  to 
believe  in  the  Incarnation  and  to  speak  of  His 
Face  and  Heart.  You  remember  that  Mr.  Wells 
offers  us  only  a  dim  Veiled  Being,  or,  on  the 
other  hand,  a  God  that  is  but  half  a  God,  since 
He  is  no  more  powerful,  no  more  sure  of  attain- 
ment, than  we  ourselves.  Mr.  Wells  says  he 
does  not  name  two  Gods,  but  one;  only  that 
Veiled  Being,  too  veiled  for  us  to  glimpse  even 
in  the  moments  of  our  strongest  vision,  Whom 
somehow  our  thought  must  create  to  fill  a  gap, 
broods,  despite  our  banishment  of  Him,  like  a 
nightmare  over  all.  It  seems  impossible  that 
He  shall  have  nothing  to  say.  But  even  if  He 
be  Love,  what  sort  of  love  will  His  be?  Not  a 
human  love,  at  any  rate.  His  thought  must  be 
in  another  category  to  ours,  and  His  love  as 
well,  if  He  could  remain  veiled  and  watch  the 
passion  of  the  centuries. 

Is  this  human  love  in  God  for  which  we  crave. 
You  know  what  I  mean?  A  dog  may  love  you, 
and  you  may  love  a  dog,  but  what  a  poor  busi- 
ness it  is !  It  is  not  merely  that  he  is  made  dif- 
ferently from  us,  and  cannot  share  our  joys 
and  sorrows  with  real  understanding.  There  is 
something  much  deeper  that  is  missing :  the  call 


OF  THE  LOVE  OF  GOD  113 

of  human  heart  to  heart,  the  yearning  for  rest 
the  one  in  the  other,  that  terrible  longing  for  a 
refuge  and  completion  in  the  other's  love  that 
belongs,  so  far  as  we  know,  only  to  human 
hearts. 

Suppose  God  has  that!  Suppose  He  really 
understands  just  what  we  feel,  not  understand- 
ing as  you  might  conceive  Allah  to  understand, 
by  an  effort  of  His  omniscience,  but  under- 
standing because  His  Heart  throbs  as  ours 
throb !  How  wonderful  it  would  be !  He  would 
know  how  terrible  life  is  if  such  love  be 
thwarted,  how  resistless  such  love  is  in  its  de- 
mands. He  would  surely  only  stretch  His  hands 
out  in  fatherly  tenderness  when  we  fled  together 
for  refuge  to  Him. 

I  wonder  what  He  wants.  I  wonder  if  He 
wants  us  to  love  Him  as  we  love  one  another. 
Do  you  know,  I  think  not  quite  that,  but  I  think 
that  what  He  wants  is  just  exactly  what  I  have 
said,  that  we  should  love  and  yet  have  room  for 
Him,  and  together  take  our  love  to  Him,  as  our 
best  treasure,  that  He  may  joy  in  it.  I  think 
He  will  be  glad  one  day  if  we  come  saying:  "0 
Father,  even  our  brethren  forgot  what  we  felt, 
but  we  know  that  You  remember.  Neither 
heaven  nor  hell  will  shelter  us,  and  so  we  come 
to  You  .  .  ." 

That  might  be  the  meaning  of  Bethlehem,  and 
of  the  rest  of  that  wonderful  life,  not  merely 
the  working  out  of  a  purpose  of  salvation,  but 


114  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

an  exhibition  of  His  secret  mind.  It  is  as  if  He 
had  smiled  and  said:  "They  will  never  guess 
what  I  am  unless  I  show  them.  Let  Me  cradle 
at  a  mother 's  breast,  let  Me  go  up  to  a  marriage 
feast,  let  Me  weep  at  the  tomb  of  a  brother,  let 
Me  be  kissed  by  lips  of  sin,  let  My  Name  among 
archangels  and  men  be  a  simple  baby  name,  and 
they  will  know  by  that  that  My  eyes  are  tender 
when  two  lovers  kiss  .  .  ." 

The  old  man  stirred  in  the  shadows,  and  the 
herd-boy  moved  easily  to  his  feet.  The  girl 
looked  up,  and  I  caught  her  eyes.  God  and  I 
were  glad. 


13. l  OF  THE  TOUCHING  OF  THE  WORLD 
INTANGIBLE 

YOU  have  been  calling  to  me  all  day, 
calling  as  really,  it  has  seemed  to  me,  as 
if  it  were  your  voice,  and  not  that  of  the 
herd-boys  that  echoed  from  time  to  time  in  the 
valley  through  which  we  rode.  I  have  heard 
you  persistently  above  the  song  of  the  stream, 
above  the  colours  of  the  flowers,  even  above  the 
depth  of  the  blue  sky  and  the  shining  of  the  sun. 
More  than  that,  I  think  you  have  been  calling 
in  and  through  them,  though  of  that  I  am  not 
certain.  If  they  are  what  I  suspect,  I  should 
be  sure,  but  since  I  cannot  tell  what  they  are,  I 
am  only  certain  of  your  voice. 

I  wonder  very  much  if  you  know  that  you 
have  been  calling  and  that  I  have  been  hearing 
but  though  I  wonder,  I  have  not  the  least  desire 
to  prove  it  in  the  way  that  some  seem  to  wish. 
That  seems  to  me  an  idle  thing.  It  would,  in- 
deed, be  to  me  almost  sacrilegious  if  I  were  to 
try  to  find  out  how  far  you  knew  what  you 
were  about,  how  far  purposeful;  it  is  enough 
that  your  soul  has  been  wistful  for  me  to-day, 
and  I  know  it.  Why,  like  Thomas,  should  I 
want  to  thrust  my  hands  into  the  print  of  the 

115 


116  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

nails?  That  there  have  been  wounds,  and  that 
the  wounds  endure,  is  far  more  real  to  me  than 
any  print  of  them. 

They  say  that  the  world  is  crazy  after  Spirit- 
ualism in  these  days,  and  even  up  here  on  the 
Berg  echoes  of  this  newest  unrest  reach  us.  The 
subject  is,  of  course,  intensely  interesting  in  its 
own  way,  but  I  want  to  write  it  down  for  you 
that  I  have  to  make  a  big  effort  to  get  the 
modern  Spiritualists'  point  of  view,  though  I 
could  easily  have  been  a  necromancer  in  the 
days  of  the  Old  Testament !  I  suppose  the  great 
explanation  is  that  vast  numbers  of  modern 
Europeans  grow  up  without  a  religion,  or  with 
the  merest  shreds  of  a  religion,  and  these  shreds 
based  on  no  sure  foundation  at  all.  Then  comes 
a  shock,  like  the  losses  of  relations  and  friends 
in  the  War,  and  people  find  they  have  nothing 
on  which  to  rest.  But  those  of  us  who  have  a 
religion  like  the  Catholic  Faith  simply  do  not 
want  Spiritualism.  Sir  Arthur  Conan  Doyle 
accuses  the  " clergy  of  the  Churches/'  I  see, 
of  belittling  or  neglecting  his  great  discoveries, 
but  the  clergy  of  the  Catholic  Faith  have  been 
teaching  the  principal  tenets  of  Spiritualism  all 
the  centuries  of  the  Christian  Era.  Sir  Arthur 
Conan  Doyle  must,  I  suppose,  being  an  educated 
man,  have  made  some  inquiries  concerning  the 
Catholic  Eeligion,  but  he  cannot  know  the 
Catholic  Faith.  If,  as  a  medical  man,  he  had 
gone  to  Lourdes  instead  of  to  clairvoyants,  he 


TOUCHING  OF  THE  WORLD  INTANGIBLE    117 

would  have  found  stories  the  equal  of  any  of 
his  as  evidence  of  survival  and  of  the  after-life. 
The  records  of  the  Saints,  down  to  those  of  this 
century,  offer  evidence  as  well  authenticated  as 
and  far  more  reasonable  than  the  records  of 
Spiritualism.  And  then  there  is  our  Lord, 
Whom  we  know  to  be  living. 

One  wonders  what  will  happen  in  this 
strangely  mixed  age.  Possibly,  one  of  these 
days,  the  popular  monthlies  and  a  man  or  two 
who  can  win  the  attention  of  their  editors  and 
their  readers  will  discover  the  Catholic  Eeligion. 
Meantime  the  world,  having  laughed  to  scorn 
fifty  years  ago  the  "materialism"  of  St.  John 
and  the  New  Testament  generally,  is  eagerly 
inquiring  of  what  material  the  spirits  build 
their  houses  in  "Summerland,"  and  rejoicing 
in  the  fact  that  one  may  obtain  there  even 
whisky  and  cigars. 

It  seems  to  me,  then,  that  a  Catholic  may  take 
an  extreme  interest  in  psychology,  and  study 
it;  may  investigate  eagerly  supernatural  occur- 
rences and  seek  to  co-ordinate  the  laws  that 
govern  them;  and  may  well  walk  through  this 
world  with  his  spiritual  eyes  and  ears  open; 
Indeed  I  marvel  that  he  can  do  otherwise. 
Since  we  know  well  enough  that  man  "sur- 
vives"; that  he  passes  into  fuller  life  in  the 
great  enveloping  spiritual  world;  that  that 
world  has  frequent  communication  with  this; 
that  there  are  established  avenues  by  which  one 


118  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

may  come  to  the  threshold  and  pass  over;  and 
that  we  have  to  hand  a  great  Divine  machinery 
for  the  exchange  of  influence  between  that  world 
and  this,  this  world  and  that — since  we  know  all 
these  things,  how  can  we  fail  to  make  use  of 
them?  But  of  what  use  to  us  are  these  ancient 
methods  that  the  Spiritualists  are  dragging  once 
more  into  the  light  of  day  and  advertising  as  if 
they  were  new  things?  It  is  not  necessary  that 
a  table  should  rap  in  order  that  I  may  learn  that 
Sister  Teresa,  the  Little  Flower,  who  died  the 
other  day,  is  actively  engaged  from  that  other 
sphere  in  assisting  us,  and  I  do  not  need  auto- 
matic writing  to  assure  me  that  my  friends  are 
in  a  spiritual  sphere  of  progression  and  purga- 
tion and  would  be  helped  by  my  prayers.  There 
is  more  evidence  of  that  to  be  found  in  the 
stories  of  the  Saints  and  of  the  Church  than 
there  is  for  the  battle  of  Waterloo. 

This  modern  Spiritism,  then,  leaves  me 
curiously  cold  for  all  that  I  am  intensely  in- 
terested in  the  subject  with  which  it  deals.  To 
me,  you  see,  it  goes  to  work  so  strangely,  and 
it  almost  makes  one  smile  to  be  greeted  by  inch- 
high  headlines  in  the  Press  which  read  very 
much  as  if  they  were  such  statements  as  these : 

Great  Pronouncement  by  Famous  Scientist: 

There  is  a  SUN  in  the  SKY! 

Do  not  fail  to  see  the  sensational  article  in  this  number: 

How  I  Discovered  that  DAY  follows  NIGHT ! ! 

Revolutionary  Experiments  by  great  Naturalist: 

CATERPILLARS  Develop  into  BUTTERFLIES!!! 


TOUCHING  OF  THE  WORLD  INTANGIBLE    119 

One  smiles,  I  say.  I  suppose  one  would  smile 
anywhere,  but  especially  on  the  Berg. 

It  is  the  grandeur,  maybe,  and  the  solitude; 
or  it  may  be  the  nearness  of  the  sky;  or  it  may 
be  that  one  is  thrust  out  here,  as  it  were,  to  catch 
the  whispers  of  that  world  about  us;  or  it  may 
be  that  mountain  tops  are,  after  all,  the  scenes 
of  angel  visits  and  of  the  manifestations  of  God. 
Anyhow  the  half  of  the  world  that  is  crazy  on 
Spiritism  cannot  altogether  laugh  at  Horeb  and 
Sinai  and  Olivet  any  longer.  At  any  rate,  I 
have  found  the  veil  more  thin  than  ever  on  the 
face  of  the  Berg. 

I  could  write  you  stories  if  I  liked,  but  I  do 
not  propose  at  length  to  do  so.  There  is  just 
one,  however,  that  is  in  my  mind  (because  I 
passed  the  place  again  to-day)  which  I  would 
like  to  mention  for  a  certain  reason.  It  might 
easily  be  worked  up  into  a  tale  for  a  magazine, 
but  I  shrink  from  that  because  somehow  (for- 
give me  if  this  is  very  silly)  it  would  seem  to 
me  to  trade  on  the  poor  souls  whose  secret  has 
been  for  a  moment  or  two  shown  to  me.  The 
tale-telling  would  be  like  the  exhibition  of  a 
cripple  or,  still  more,  as  if  one  were  to  earn  a 
guinea  or  two  by  working  up  the  story  of  some 
simple  tragic  love  that  had  been  confided  to 
one. 

But  there  is  a  place  here,  on  the  Berg,  very 
lonely  and  remote,  to  which  my  boy  and  I  came 
one  dying  evening  in  late  autumn,  having 


120  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

travelled  far,  and  made  a  hasty  camp.  We  had 
pushed  on  to  cover  the  ground  on  the  homeward 
trail,  and  there  was  hardly  light  to  do  more 
than  espy  a  fountain  and  gather  some  bushes 
and  roots  for  fuel  ere  the  dark  fell.  The  kettle 
boiled,  and,  our  food  eaten,  we  rolled  in  blankets 
and  tried  to  sleep.  The  boy  went  off  easily,  but 
I  could  not.  I  lay  first  on  one  side  and  then 
on  the  other;  I  stared  at  the  stars;  I  resolutely 
turned  my  face  to  the  opposite  hillside — each 
in  turn,  but  all  no  good.  There  was  a  faint  moon 
and  no  wind.  The  night  was  very  still. 

The  first  indication  of  anything  unusual  that 
I  saw  was  a  shadow  between  myself  and  the 
hillside.  I  regarded  it  intently,  and  saw  that 
it  was  a  man.  He  passed  along  in  the  faint 
moonlight  and  entered  what  I  saw  in  the 
moment  of  his  entering  to  be  a  hut.  You  might 
suppose  that  I  should  have  been  curious  or 
frightened;  but  I  was  neither,  only  interested. 
And  I  grew  more  interested  when  I  saw  more 
huts,  more  figures,  and  even — I  am  not  romanc- 
ing to  you,  dear,  and  I  certainly  was  not  dream- 
ing— dogs.  I  think  it  was  at  that  that  I  began 
to  puzzle  if  we  had  not,  perchance,  missed  seeing 
the  village  when  we  encamped  in  the  late  even- 
ing, and  I  rolled  over  and  sat  up  in  the  blankets 
to  ask  my  boy.  He  was  apparently  asleep  still, 
for  he  was  not  moving,  but  covered  up  entirely, 
as  a  native  sleeps,  and  I  leaned  over  to  waken 
him.  But  just  then  I  was  arrested  by  a  figure 


TOUCHING  OF  THE  WORLD  INTANGIBLE    121 

coining  towards  me  from  the  opposite  slope  of 
the  valley.  It  was  that  of  a  man,  quite  distinct 
to  see,  naked  except  for  a  loin-cloth,  and  carry- 
ing spears.  He  was  staring  straight  in  front 
of  him  and  running  hard.  I  knew  that  he  was 
shouting  as  well,  though  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
I  knew,  for  I  am  not  sure  that  I  heard  with 
my  ears.  The  sight  of  him  held  me.  It  was 
all  over  in  a  few  seconds  after  that,  for  he  was 
coming  swiftly  nearer,  and  I  was  right  in  his 
path,  and  a  terror  began  to  fall  on  me  as  I 
realised  it.  Then,  when  he  was  only  a  few  yards 
away,  the  moon  shone  for  a  moment  more 
clearly;  I  saw  what  I  took  to  be  a  great  gash 
in  his  shoulder  and  breast;  I  cried  out  some- 
thing and  gripped  my  boy.  And  as  I  did  so 
there  was  nothing,  and  when  I  turned  and 
looked  towards  the  village,  there  was  nothing 
there,  either. 

My  boy  awoke  slowly,  slowly  enough  to  en- 
able me  to  get  over  any  fear  I  had  and  to  put 
him  off  with  a  question  or  two  on  other  subjects. 
After  a  while,  too,  I  slept,  and  did  not  wake  till 
dawn,  nor  did  I  dream.  But  in  the  morning 
light  I  walked  to  that  hillside  and  poked  around, 
and  then  called  the  boy.  "Yes,  Father,"  he  said 
after  examination,  "there  have  been  huts  here,  I 
should  say,  and  they  have  been  burned  down 
— see  this  stone,  and  that — but  a  long  time 
ago.  .  .  ." 

When  I  read  what  Rupert  Brooke  says  of  the 


122  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

empty,  spiritless  Kockies,  I  thought  of  that 
night,  and  I  have  thought  of  it  again  and  again 
since.  There  have  been  other  things,  too,  up 
here,  but  my  point  is  that,  whenever  I  think  of 
such  happenings,  they  seem  to  me  to  be  of  less 
significance  than  the  consciousness  of  you  that 
I  had  to-day.  It  is  a  small  wonder  that  we 
sometimes,  some  of  us,  see  the  shadows  of  what 
has  been,  either  the  shadows  cast  by  the  mind  of 
our  sub-conscious  self  or  the  objective  shadows 
of  that  real  spiritual  world  thrown,  for  some 
reason  and  for  some  moments,  on  the  screen  of 
this  but  half -real,  temporal  world.  Doubtless, 
if  we  did  not  blind  ourselves,  we  should  see 
much  more.  But  the  matter  that  seems  to  me 
great  is  that  one  can  be  conscious  of  listening 
just  the  other  side  of  a  curtain  all  but  all  the 
time;  that  one  can  ride  for  a  day  and  feel  that 
at  any  moment  the  visible  might  dissolve  like 
those  old  magic  lantern  exhibitions  of  our  child- 
hood and  show  another  picture;  and  that  spirit 
can  cry  out  to  spirit  so  certainly  across  what 
may  seem  gulfs  to  us  now,  but  which  shall 
surely  prove  to  be  no  more  than  a  little  space 
across  which  two  may  lean  and  kiss. 

So,  my  dear,  have  I  heard  you  persistently 
all  day,  above  the  song  of  the  stream,  above  the 
colours  of  the  flowers,  even  above  the  depth  of 
the  sky  and  the  shining  of  the  sun.  Tour  call- 
ing made  me  restless  at  first,  for  I  wanted  more 
of  you  than  that,  far  more  than  I  can  say.  And 


TOUCHING  OF  THE  WORLD  INTANGIBLE    123 

I  told  you  so,  and  lifted  my  face  to  yon,  and 
sent  my  message  out;  and  I  have  peace  to-night. 
Perhaps  you  were  asking  definitely  just  for  that, 
and  perhaps  now  you  too  are  more  content  to 
wait. 


14.    OF  THE  TRUE  RICHES 


'T^HERE  are  certain  verses  in  the  Bible 
which  contain  only  half-truths,  if,  indeed, 
they  are  truths  at  all,  shocking  as  I  sup- 
pose it  is  to  say  so.  Of  all  such  verses  that 
I  dislike  one  of  the  worst  is,  I  think,  a  text 
which  finds  a  prominent  place  in  what  remains 
of  the  religion  of  Englishmen,  for  most  English 
people  are  still  at  least  buried  by  the  Church. 
"We  brought  nothing  into  this  world,  and  it  is 
certain  we  can  carry  nothing  out"  —  there  you 
have  it.  It  is  just  not  true.  For  myself,  I  hate 
the  saying. 

You  wonder  why,  perhaps,  I  should  think  of 
writing  to  you  while  up  here  on  such  a  gloomy 
subject,  but,  as  in  the  case  of  so  many  other 
things,  this  wonderful  old  Berg  has  so  much  to 
say  about  it.  The  Berg  has  been  preaching  to 
me  all  day  long  on  the  foolishness  of  the  text, 
and  I  rather  like  the  sermon.  So  I  want  to  pass 
it  on  to  you. 

The  Berg  said,  Erst  of  all,  that  of  course 
there  was  an  elementary  and  superficial  truth 
about  the  words,  and  that  no  teacher  could  show 
me  that  better  than  itself.  We  were  passing 
some  tumbled  piles  of  stone  at  the  time,  and  they 
were  immediately  offered  me  as  a  proof.  For 

124 


OF  THE  TRUE  RICHES  125 

several  generations  men  and  women  had  lived 
there,  lived  busy,  crowded  lives  in  their  own 
way  of  love  and  hate  and  passion;  had  built 
their  houses  of  the  grass  and  stone  around;  had 
ploughed  up  their  lands;  had  wrestled  with 
Nature  and  fought  through  snows  and  drought; 
and  then  had  passed  as  mysteriously  as  they 
had  come.  Disease  or  War  swept  them  off,  or 
maybe  they  only  trekked  away — no  one  now 
can  say.  A  few  years,  and  you  had  to  look 
closely  to  know  that  they  had  been  there.  The 
face  of  the  Berg  was  again  as  it  had  been.  They 
had  brought  nothing  into  this  world,  and  they 
took  nothing  out. 

So  I  reasoned,  like  a  silly  fool,  for  it  was  not 
true  even  of  them.  Those  little  babies  of  a 
vanished  past  had  brought  with  them  the 
heritage  of  a  racial  curse  older  than  history, 
each  one  bringing  his  share.  Each  had  come 
heavily  handicapped  to  the  race,  so  that  they 
had  made  no  progress  where  others  run  fast  and 
far.  No  good  angel,  moulding  their  souls  from 
the  treasures  of  God,  had  borne  them  into  this 
world,  but  into  each  embryo  being  had  been 
packed  that  which  would  inevitably  dwarf  their 
intelligences,  sell  them  to  passion,  and  brand 
them  among  men.  Of  Ham  I  know  nothing,  and 
care  less;  I  doubt  he  ever  lived;  but  it  might 
well  have  been  a  sensualist  such  as  he  who  sent 
these  so  far  from  empty-handed  to  live  their 
day  on  the  face  of  the  Berg. 


126  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

Then  do  yon  snppose  that  even  they  went 
empty-handed  out?  I  cannot.  Their  fifty  years 
would  have  been  enough  to  burden  them  still 
more  with  selfishness,  ignorance,  and  the  crav- 
ing for  animal  passions.  And  none  of  that  cargo 
was  jettisoned  when,  ship  by  ship,  they  sailed 
out  from  their  brief  anchorage  into  the  un- 
known. What  the  Owner  made  of  it  all  when 
their  bills  of  lading  were  given  in,  I  cannot  even 
guess,  but  at  least  He  could  not  have  expected 
much  else.  I  know  enough  of  primitive  man 
to  know  that. 

On  the  other  hand,  there  are  such  as  Viola. 
You  remember  what  went  to  the  making  of 
Viola: 

"Spin,  Queen  Mary,  a 
Brown  tress  for  Viola! 

"Scoop,  young  Jesus,  for  her  eyes, 
Wood-browned  pools  of  Paradise. 

"Lave,  Prince  Jesus,  a 
Star  in  eyes  of  Viola ! 

"Breathe,  Regal  Spirit,  a 
Flashing  soul  for  Viola! 

"Child-angels,  from  your  wings 
Fall  the  roseal  hoverings 

On  the  cheeks  of  Viola." 

There  was  a  rich  loading  for  you!  Just  so 
the  greater  part  of  our  treasures  of  art,  music, 


OF  THE  TRUE  RICHES  127 

literature,  and  beauty  was  brought  to  us.  But 
who  loads  this  ship  thus  and  that  ship  as  those 
others,  who  can  say?  Or  why?  And  the  pathos 
of  the  contrast  between  Viola  and  any  one  of 
those  vanished  dusky  babies! 

But  speculation  of  that  sort  is  rather  useless, 
and,  after  all,  it  need  worry  us  very  little.  I 
have  met  men  who  seemed  to  find  it  an  in- 
tolerable thing  that  any  man  should  come  into 
this  world  rich  with  treasure,  or  cursed,  but  I 
fail  to  see  myself  why  they  should  feel  so.  God 
is  great  and  just.  If  He  is  also  inscrutable, 
what  are  we  to  complain?  And  maybe  it  is 
better  to  enter  burdened  hopelessly  and  succumb 
in  the  end,  after  a  well-fought  fight,  than  to 
enter  rich  and  squander  the  treasure.  "How 
hardly  shall  they  that  have  riches  enter  the 
Kingdom  of  Heaven/'  Never,  at  any  rate,  was 
truer  text  than  that,  and  you  will  remember 
that  the  servants  were  sent  out  into  the  high- 
ways and  hedges  to  bring  in,  not  the  rich,  but 
the  blind  and  halt  and  maimed.  And  the  Lord 
of  the  feast  doubtless  sees  to  it  that  they  have 
healing  salve  for  their  wounds,  and  water  in 
which  to  wash  the  stains  of  travel,  and  newer, 
cleaner,  brighter  robes  than  ever  they  wore  here. 
I  have  found  it  in  my  heart  to  envy  them. 

The  other  half  of  the  question  is  enormously 
more  interesting — the  question  of  the  treasures 
we  can  gather  on  our  journey  and  bear  away 
with  us.  The  old  Berg,  needless  to  say,  has  no 


128  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

hesitation  as  to  their  nature,  and  it  seems  so 
obvious  here  that  one  hardly  likes  to  write  it. 
For  instance,  last  night  I  stood  and  watched 
the  sun  set  over  the  great  rift  in  the  Berg  that 
makes  the  valley  of  the  Orange  river,  and — why, 
I  hardly  know — the  beauty  and  peace  of  the 
world  made  the  tears  come  to  my  eyes  and  the 
breath  catch  in  my  throat.  It  was  so  utterly 
lovely  and  still — oh,  my  dear,  if  only  I  could 
tell  you !  And  then  I  thought  to  myself :  < '  Sup- 
pose, now,  you  were  standing  on  a  gold  mine 
— you  might  be— would  the  gain  of  the  gold 
mine  be  worth  the  treasure  of  that  sunset?" 
And  the  old  Berg  silently  answered  me,  not 
without  the  rather  sarcastic  smile  of  old  age, 
and  I  knew,  indeed,  it  would  not.  For  the  gold 
would  never  be  mine,  no,  not  though  I  found, 
mined,  exploited,  revelled  in  it;  I  should  needs 
leave  it  all  behind;  but  as  for  the  gold  of  the 
sunset,  it  is  mine  for  ever. 

They  are  fools  who  slave  all  their  years  for 
an  existence ;  utter  fools  who  live  among  bricks 
and  mortar  all  their  days;  fools,  that  is,  unless 
they  have  learned  the  secret  of  this  new 
Philosopher's  Stone  whereby  even  the  dirt  and 
dinginess  of  a  city  suburb  can  be  minted  into 
the  eternal  gold.  For  let  us  set  it  down,  my 
dear:  it  is  possible  to  grow  very  wealthy  even 
in  a  slum,  like  some  of  the  folk  "Down  our 
Street/'  It  is  possible,  but  it  is  very  hard,  and 
I  refuse  to  believe  we  humans  were  ever  meant 


OF  THE  TRUE  RICHES  129 

to  have  to  labour  so  for  our  gold.  Why,  here  I 
pick  it  up  in  handfuls  every  day;  I  even,  God 
forgive  me,  grow  tired  of  picking  it  up;  and 
sometimes,  if  I  dare  write  it,  I  know  I  even  seek 
to  waste  what  I  have  acquired.  And  this  eternal 
treasure,  that  we  can  carry  away  with  us,  is  not 
easily  lost.  Easily  won  it  is,  but  hardly  lost. 
Oh,  the  good  God! 

Yes,  I  do  not  doubt  that  Diogenes  in  his  tub, 
Simon  Stylites  on  his  pillar,  the  filthy  old 
anchorite  who  talked  to  Eichard  Eaynal,  and 
many  more  like  them,  can  go  rich  away  when 
their  hour  comes,  and  certainly  many  of  them 
have.  But  it  is  a  vocation.  One  must  be  called 
to  it.  The  pity  is  that  nine-tenths  of  the  mod- 
ern folk,  who  have  to  live  their  lives  out  all  but 
as  much  tied  down,  in  fact,  as  any  of  these,  have 
not  been  called  to  it.  They  have  been  pushed 
into  it;  that  is  all.  They  cannot  get  out,  per- 
haps, but  for  the  most  part  they  do  not  wish  to 
do  so.  And  then  they  bring  children  into  the 
world,  not  happily  naked,  but  all  wrapped  up  in 
their  own  old  grave-clothes  of  mind,  and  their 
children  bring  children,  and  God  help  us  all. 
Why  should  you  and  I  have  been  delivered  from 
all  that,  I  wonder?  The  insoluble  question 
again — let  us  leave  it. 

The  fact  is  that  you  and  I  are  among  the 
millionaires.  A  man  is  not  held  to  be  conceited 
if  he  proclaims  that  he  can  sign  a  cheque  for  a 
million  dollars,  so  why  should  it  be  conceit  for 


130  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

you  and  me  to  say  so  of  ourselves?  I  am,  then, 
becoming  a  millionaire.  I  have  learnt  to  laugh 
with  joy  at  the  antics  of  the  world  in  a  dozen 
blades  of  grass.  I  have  seen  suns  die  and  flame 
again  so  often  that  honestly  their  glory  is 
rarely  long  out  of  my  eyes,  and  I  know,  at  least, 
that  it  never  will  go  for  ever.  I  have  heard  the 
morning  stars  sing  for  joy  and  the  whole  wide 
earth  take  up  the  chorus  so  often  that  the  re- 
frain is  ever  in  my  ears.  I  have  felt  the  tingle 
of  the  cold,  and  the  blaze  of  the  sun,  and  the 
blows  of  the  wind,  and  the  sting  of  the  rain  so 
often  that  I  know  now  that  they  are  brethren 
and  Death  their  dear  sister.  And  I  have  seen 
God  walk  so  often  among  the  trees  in  the  cool 
of  the  day,  and  have  met  His  angels  so  often  on 
their  errands,  that  I  know,  wonderful  though 
it  is,  that  He  is  Friend,  and  that  whichever  of 
the  angels  He  sends  to  me  will  be  sent  friendly- 
wise.  Oh,  I  am  rich,  I  am  very  rich,  my  dear. 
It  is  all  quite  true :  there  are  fabulous  riches  on 
the  Face  of  the  Berg. 

And  you — you  are  growing  rich,  are  you  not? 
You  must  be,  for  you  have  given  so  much  away. 
Eich  as  I  am,  I  all  but  envy  you  your  riches. 
You  will  pass  over  with  wealth  so  untold  that 
surely  the  trumpets  on  the  other  side  will  blow 
as  for  the  coming  of  a  queen.  I  have  watched 
you  grow  rich,  and  I  have  marvelled  at  your 
treasure.  The  sharpest  thorns  in  all  the  Crown 
were  offered  you,  and  you  took  them  with  a 


OF  THE  TRUE  RICHES  131 

smile,  ana  pressed  them  down  so  simply,  but  so 
truly,  that  the  very  Offerer  must  have  won- 
dered to  see  you,  and  from  each  thorn  has 
sprung  an  eternal  rose  of  such  beauty  that  no 
gold  of  earth  can  value  them.  The  bitterest 
drink  filled  the  chalice  offered  you,  and  you 
drank  each  drop  so  bravely  that  now  no  treas- 
ure of  rubies  can  exceed  yours.  Pearls?  You 
have  wept  them  one  by  one  into  that  safe 
hiding-place  where  no  thieves  break  through 
nor  steal,  whither  you  shall  go  one  day  and  find 
them. 

Poor  old  Job !  I  hope  he  was  only  a  mystery 
play  after  all.  He  said  some  wonderful  things, 
and  not  for  the  world  would  I  have  missed 
them,  but,  my  faith,  he  was  a  poor  old  man! 
Even  at  the  end  he  counted  his  wealth  in  sheep, 
and  oxen,  and  asses,  and  wives,  and  children, 
and  houses,  of  which,  indeed,  he  wrote  truly 
enough  when  he  said  he  could  not  take  them 
away.  Possibly  he  discovered,  after  all,  that  he 
was  richer  on  the  other  side  than  he  thought ;  he 
ought  to  have  been,  considering  the  music  God 
sang  in  his  ears.  But  if  he  was  not  only  a  mys- 
tery play,  and  if  he  is  really  poor  over  there, 
why,  then,  when  we  come  together  with  the  in- 
finite riches  we  have  gathered  on  earth  and  car- 
ried over  with  us,  we  will  seek  him  out,  and  bid 
him  share. 


15.    OF  THE  SHOUTING  OF  THE  SONS 
OF  GOD 

EVEEY  one  writes  of  the  sunsets,  very  few 
of  the  dawns,  I  suppose  because  even 
poets  are  not  often  up  early  enough  to 
see  them.  Occasionally  sleeping  on  deck  in  the 
Tropics,  or  rather  trying  to  sleep,  an  early 
morning  whiff  of  air  wakes  a  tourist,  and  he 
sees;  and  still  more  rarely  brave  spirits  climb 
Alps  before  the  light,  and  write  home  about  it. 
But  we  moderns  see  mostly  the  flaming  sunsets, 
even  in  smoky  cities,  for  the  sun  in  his  dying 
even  glories  in  the  smoke,  and  our  tragedy  em- 
purples half  the  sky. 

But  on  the  Berg  one  may  see  the  dawn  very 
often,  for  one  goes  early  to  bed  on  trek  for  lack 
of  anything  better  to  do  when  the  dark  falls  and 
supper  is  over,  and  one  rises  early  to  trek  as  far 
as  possible  before  the  heat.  I  wake  nearly 
always  in  that  mystical  half -hour  when  it  is  still 
dark  and  yet  one  knows  that  the  hours  of  dark 
are  numbered,  and  I  lie  in  my  blankets  and 
watch  the  sun  rising  more  mornings  than  not. 
May  I  write  of  it,  then,  and  the  more  so  because 
commonly  it  is  not  in  the  least  what  one  would 
expect  or  the  sort  of  spectacle  that  is  written 
about? 

132  j 


SHOUTING  OF  THE  SONS  OF  GOD  133 

In  the  first  place,  you  do  not  often  see  glories 
of  crimson  and  gold,  or  even  of  silver  and  blue. 
The  sun  does  not  peep  over  the  tops  of  the 
mountains,  or  rise  suddenly  from  the  edge  of 
the  dark  world  like  a  disc  of  fire.  You  cannot 
watch  dark  change  to  light  in  ten  minutes,  or 
the  colours  flame  up,  as  at  sunset  they  flame 
out  even  in  England,  while  you  wait.  True,  in  a 
sense,  all  the  colours  are  there,  and  there  is  a 
gilding  of  mountain-tops,  but  it  is  not  spec- 
tacular as  we  have  learnt  to  reckon  spectacles, 
or  not  often,  at  any  rate. 

No,  it  is  infinitely  more  mysterious,  more 
symbolical,  more  mystical.  There  is  next  to 
nothing  to  describe,  and  yet  there  is  so  much  to 
think  about.  And  there  is  time  to  think,  for  the 
dawn  takes  a  long  time. 

Yes,  that  is  the  first  wonderful  thing  about 
it:  it  takes  a  very  long  time.  At  evening  you 
can  say:  "Oh,  the  sun  is  setting;  come  and 
see,"  and  you  can  stand  and  see  and  go  away 
all  in  a  little  while.  But  on  the  Berg,  at  any 
rate,  it  is  rare  that  it  would  be  possible  to  call 
a  person  to  see  the  dawn,  and  possibly  it  would 
be  rare  to  find  a  person  with  sufficient  patience 
to  wait  for  it.  For  the  sunrise  is  majestic  in  its 
unperturbed  leisure,  in  its  slow  solemnity. 

You  wake,  and  you  know  that  the  world  is  all 
aquiver  for  a  new  birth.  It  is  incredible,  that 
sense  that  every  animate  and  inanimate  thing  is 
coming  slowly  to  an  ecstasy  which,  you  feel,  is 


134  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

only  half  understood.  The  world  is  poised  on 
tiptoe  to  welcome  a  Divine,  incomprehensible 
mystery.  It  feels  that  it  is  about  to  bathe  in  the 
eternal  fire  of  immortality,  but  it  does  not  know 
— it  never  knows,  and  never  will  know — just 
what  that  means.  So  there  is  an  awed  hush, 
and,  like  Elijah  in  the  mouth  of  the  cave,  you 
catch  the  murmur  of  a  still  small  voice  that  is 
no  more  than  the  breath  of  silence.  I  cannot 
really  write  to  you  of  it.  Again  and  again,  at 
some  midday,  I  have  smiled  to  myself  at  the 
remembrance  and  known  that  it  could  not  have 
been,  but  again  and  again,  before  the  dawn,  I 
have  wrapped  my  face  in  my  blanket  to  wait 
while  God  went  by. 

It  is  the  birds  who  are  brave  enough  to  break 
that  silence.  We  have  no  great  songsters  on  the 
Berg — indeed,  by  day  you  would  say  that  we 
had  none,  for  there  is  hardly  a  bird-voice  except 
that  of  the  big  crows  that  adjure  the  disturbers 
of  their  solitude  from  some  rock  by  the  way,  or 
the  doves  in  the  river  willows.  But  in  the  dawn- 
ing you  hear  them.  The  little  birds  that  run 
among  the  stones  rather  than  fly  and  the 
smaller  birds  still  that  sweep  in  clouds  over  the 
lands  all  begin  to  twitter  expectantly.  And 
there  are  a  thousand  other  sounds,  I  know  not 
of  what.  The  air  is  atremble  with  sound.  You 
turn  the  ear  to  catch  it,  and  cannot  tell  if  you 
heard  it  or  if  you  did  not.  It  is  as  if  solemn 
personages  cried  to  each  other  across  vast 


SHOUTING  OF  THE  SONS  OF  GOD  135 

spaces  in  voices  too  great  for  us  to  hear,  just 
as  the  tiny  insects  beneath  our  feet  seem  not  to 
hear  us.  And  the  wind  rises,  too,  and  bears  on 
its  breast  the  murmur  of  water  from  a  hundred 
tiny  streams,  while  the  whisper  of  its  message 
stirs  the  very  soul  of  the  world  and  moves  it  to 
a  prayer. 

Then  the  light  begins.  You  do  not  know  that 
it  has  begun  until  you  perceive  suddenly  that 
the  night  is  no  longer  night.  It  is  utterly  im- 
perceptible, that  gradual  lightening.  At  first  it 
is  the  darkness  that  grows  less  heavy  while  not 
ceasing  to  be  dark,  and  then  it  is  the  world  all 
about  that  takes  shape  rather  than  the  dark 
that  goes.  Far  more  slowly  than  the  turn  of  the 
tide  the  day  rolls  in,  but,  as  the  tide,  it  laps  the 
crags  and  kopjes  and  widens  slowly,  slowly,  from 
a  wash  of  something  that  is  only  just  not  light 
into  light  itself.  More  than  an  hour  will  go  by 
up  there  in  some  fold  of  the  Berg,  and  still  you 
will  not  see  the  sun.  You  rise  finally  to  look  for 
him,  impatient  and  eager  for  the  warmth  of  his 
kiss,  and  at  long  last,  why,  there  is  the  golden 
radiance  crowning  the  mountain-top,  and  there 
is  the  wide  shaft  of  fire  stabbing  the  valley ! 

The  very  slowness  of  it  all  gives  one  the 
impression  of  irresistible  power,  and  it  is  that 
sense  that  keeps  me  wrapped  closely  in  my 
blankets  many  and  many  a  time  when  I  ought  to 
be  up.  The  dawn  is  alive ;  it  is,  as  it  were,  the 
aura  of  a  living  person,  the  immanation  of 


136  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

Power.  The  night  does  battle  with  it ;  the  very 
Berg  towers  up  to  resist  it;  the  great  valleys 
clutch  themselves  and  their  treasure  of  dark- 
ness; but  all  in  vain.  The  dawn  suffers  in- 
numerable checks  of  rock  and  spur  that  stay  its 
coming.  It  moves  so  slowly  that  the  hearts  of 
the  watchers  tremble  lest  it  should  not  come, 
but  it  moves  so  surely  that  one  knows  there  is 
nought  to  do  but  to  abide  its  coming.  If  a  man 
is  in  tune  for  it,  that  slow  coming  breathes  a 
wonderful  and  tender  confidence  and  peace,  but 
if  he  is  not,  it  can  make  him  fear. 

I  wonder  often  if  the  Lord  Christ  will  come 
again  like  that.  I  do  not  see  why  He  should 
not.  His  first  coming  was  so  entirely  unex- 
pected, and  even  although  it  seems  now  to  us  to 
have  been  very  plainly  written  of  and  clear,  still 
no  one  expected  the  Mother  and  the  Babe  at  the 
Manger.  So  then  of  His  second  coming  we 
may  not  understand  the  texts.  Maybe  His 
radiance  is  already  painted  on  the  clouds  on 
which  He  sits,  and  that  is  why  men  do  to-day 
as  a  whole  place  Honour  and  Liberty  and  Jus- 
tice higher  than  before.  I  wish  I  could  see 
Truth  set  high,  however,  for  it  seems  to  me  that 
that  is  a  star  of  the  morning  for  which  we  care 
less  and  less,  in  whose  very  existence  we  hardly 
believe.  But  I  do  not  know;  at  any  rate,  He 
may  come  so.  The  trembling  hearts  may  yet 
find  that  He  has  been  coming  all  the  time  and  is 
here ;  they  may  find  that  it  is  not  so  much  that 


SHOUTING  OF  THE  SONS  OF  GOD    137 

He  has  come  as  that  the  night  has  gone.  And 
in  the  moment  of  discovery,  as  they  rise  and 
say:  "Why,  it  is  day/9  the  sun  himself  will 
appear  above  the  far  horizon,  and  we  shall  see 
the  King  in  His  Beauty. 

And  perhaps  Christ  comes  to  individual  souls 
rather  like  this.  Men  are  not  often  convinced 
by  an  argument,  by  a  book,  by  a  preacher,  by 
any  one  thing.  Often,  during  the  process  of 
conviction,  a  man  is  not  conscious  that  he  is 
being  convinced  at  all,  and  especially  is  this  so 
with  religious  truth,  the  process  of  which  is 
above  us,  beyond  us,  outside  us,  like  a  dawn. 
The  change  steals  silently  and  imperceptibly 
over  the  wide  horizons  as  well  as  over  the  valley 
at  our  feet.  Suddenly  we  see  this  or  that  more 
clearly,  why  we  scarcely  can  say ;  and  as  likely 
as  not  the  thing  seen  to  be  clearer  seems  to  have 
no  connection  with  the  sunrise  of  the  main  truth 
at  all.  And  then  in  a  moment  we  perceive  that 
the  night  has  gone;  we  see  that  the  sun 
illumines  every  tree  and  rock  and  valley;  we 
know  that  nothing  is  without  a  purpose  and  a 
meaning,  that  all  things  are  part  of  a  great 
whole,  and  that  the  sun  of  truth  has  risen  upon 
us.  Nor  can  we  give  much  of  an  explanation. 
We  really  scarcely  know  ourselves  how  it  came 
to  pass,  only  that  once  we  were  blind  and  now 
we  see. 

But  for  all  this,  the  dawn  is  very  cruel.  It  is 
inexorable  fate.  It  comes,  it  floods  the  world 


138  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

with  hope,  it  rouses  us  eager  and  expectant, 
and  in  a  little  the  intolerable  heat  overlaps  the 
world;  we  trek  on,  hot  and  parched,  we  fail  to 
attain,  and  we  cast  ourselves  gladly  down  as  the 
spent  day  dies.  The  kindly  night  deepens  and 
veils  and  smothers,  but  far  too  soon  the  world 
trembles  once  more  at  the  approach  of  its 
tyrant  and  lord.  He  has  been  but  playing  with 
us.  He  will  call  us  up  and  thrust  us  out  again 
with  a  smile,  but  it  is  a  cruel  smile.  He  knows 
well  enough  that  we  cannot  do  all  we  would, 
that  we  shall  not  attain  what  we  wish,  that  our 
strength  will  fail,  and  that  he  is  too  great  for 
us. 

And  that  is  so  like  life.  At  twenty  one  is  so 
sure  that  it  is  good,  and  one  glories  in  one's 
strength ;  at  thirty  one  is  walking  in  a  pitiless, 
hard  light;  at  forty  one  sees  that  the  day  is 
already  on  the  wane;  at  fifty  one  wonders  if 
there  will  be  rest  and  .plenty  in  the  evening ;  and 

at  sixty ?  Ah,  I  do  not  know.  Maybe  there 

are  brave  hearts  who  think  confidently  of  an- 
other dawn  as  they  know  their  day  is  done,  but 
there  are  more  to  whom  the  falling  veil  of  dark- 
ness can  alone  give  peace. 

But  I  will  tell  you  of  my  hope.  The  dawn 
does  not  fulfil  the  promise  of  the  stars ;  it  con- 
ceals them.  The  glare  of  the  risen  sun  of  our 
poor  planet  floods  us  in  a  garish  light,  and 
wearies  with  its  heat,  but  the  soft-lit  stars  are 
still  there,  if  hidden,  remote,  undying,  very 


SHOUTING  OF  THE  SONS  OF  GOD    139 

patient.  Waking  in  the  dawn,  one  sees  them, 
and  if  they  are  lost  in  the  day,  they  shine  again 
more  brightly  with  the  night.  So  maybe  the 
stars  of  our  ideals  still  glitter  about  the  throne 
of  God  and  in  the  halo  of  His  Mother.  Maybe 
our  last  night  will  pass  with  the  dawning  of 
those  other  suns.  Maybe  the  whole  wide  world 
expects  that  day,  is  groaning  and  travailing  for 
it,  and  hopes  anew  that  it  has  come  at  last  with 
every  dawn.  Maybe  in  the  dawning  it  is  but  the 
expectancy  of  a  song  that  has  not  yet  been  sung 
that  one  catches,  and  from  the  longing  of  their 
ardent  hearts  may  learn  what  it  will  be  when 
the  Sons  of  God  shout  for  joy. 


16.    OF  THE  BITTER  CROSS 

THIS  began  by  being  an  altogether  delight- 
ful day.  Arriving  fairly  late  last  night  at 
an  out-of-the-way  village  right  up  one  of 
those  swift  little  streams  that  flow  inland  from 
the  Berg  to  join  up  eventually  with  the  Orange 
river,  we  found  a  white  man  and  a  missionary 
already  there.  This  is  rare  enough,  as  you  can 
imagine,  and  a  very  pleasant  surprise,  but  it 
was  still  more  pleasant  when  the  missionary 
turned  out  to  be  my  friend  Fr.  Lemans.  I 
found  him  sitting  on  the  floor  of  a  hut,  his  back 
against  the  wall,  eating  with  a  native  spoon 
from  a  basin  of  mafi  (or  thick  milk)  with  mealie 
bread  crumbled  upon  it.  He  was  as  surprised 
to  see  me  as  I  was  to  see  him,  for  it  is  rare  that 
we  actually  hit  on  each  other  in  our  zigzag 
trekking,  though  we  frequently  cross  each 
other's  trails.  He  got  up,  a  shortish,  stoutish 
man,  his  face  all  smiles,  and  then  we  sat  down 
together,  and  I  helped  him  with  his  mafi.  Cyril 
brought  my  packs  into  the  same  hut,  and  later 
on  you  might  have  seen  us,  each  stretched  out 
on  his  blankets,  on  either  side  of  a  candle  stuck 
in  an  old  tin,  and  each  smoking  many  pipes  of 
peace. 
He  had  been  long  on  trek,  and  he  has  been  far 

140 


OF  THE  BITTER  CROSS  141 

longer  in  such,  work  than  I.  Indeed,  I  was  a 
boy  at  school  when  he  first  came  out  to  the  Berg, 
and  he  has  been  steadily  roaming  up  and  down 
these  mountains  with  one  object  while  I  have 
been  painfully  sorting  out  my  ideas  in  half  a 
dozen  countries.  Never  did  Frenchman  love 
home  and  kindred  more  than  he,  and  if  you  will 
listen,  he  will  ramble  on  for  hours  about  the 
diocese  in  which  he  was  born,  its  lovely 
churches,  its  kindly  bishop,  and  its  devoted 
faithful.  Yet  he  has  turned  his  back  on  all  that 
for  ever.  For  Christ's  sake  and  the  Gospel's  he 
has  neither  wife,  children,  lands,  nor  home ;  and 
if  there  be  a  wistful  longing  sometimes,  just 
tinging  a  phrase  or  underlying  a  sentence,  still, 
for  all  that,  Fr.  Lemans  is  very  content,  I  think. 
He  and  his  are  a  strange  commentary  on  life, 
my  dear.  You  and  I  want  so  much,  do  we  not? 
and  we  are  so  torn  by  this  and  that,  by  love  and 
passion,  by  hopes  and  fears ;  but  he  seems  to  me 
to  have  almost  no  hopes  and  no  fears ;  if  love, 
certainly  no  passion;  if  inevitable  worries,  cer- 
tainly no  distress.  He  has  his  work,  and  he 
does  it ;  and  he  does  not  argue  about  his  Faith 
or  aoubt  it ;  as  to  the  future,  well,  another  will 
carry  on  when  he  lays  down  his  tools;  the 
Church  changes  not,  and  the  future  is  with  God. 
So  he  travels  all  but  unceasingly  from  tiny 
hamlet  to  tiny  hamlet,  living  among  the  natives, 
not  seeing  a  white  man  for  weeks,  and  rich 
enough  on  twenty  pounds  a  year  and  the  grant 


142  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

of  a  new  suit  when  his  old  one  is  in  rags.  When 
he  came  his  Catholics  were  less  than  a  couple  of 
score  in  all  these  mountains ;  now  he  has  about 
six  hundred  communicants,  a  regular  route,  a 
line  of  small  churches,  and  a  steadily  growing 
army  of  hearers  and  catechumens.  His  disci- 
pline, length  of  instruction,  and  standard  of 
knowledge  for  baptism  are  surprising,  and  I 
like  it  especially  that  he  has  three  days'  spirit- 
ual retreat  for  natives  before  he  baptises  them. 
I  wish  we  could  do  something  like  that,  but, 
sticking  as  we  do  to  the  traditional  times  of 
Baptism  at  Easter  and  Christmas,  this  is  more 
than  our  one-man  parishes  can  manage  at  such 
busy  times.  Fr.  Lemans  never  seems  cast  down, 
and  never,  on  the  other  hand,  particularly  joy- 
ful. Doubtless  he  has  his  moments,  but  on  the 
whole  this  is  typical  of  his  life,  one-centred, 
devoted,  but  in  a  sense  indifferent.  He  appears 
to  me  to  keep  his  eyes  on  God  and  to  do  his 
duty,  and  it  is  no  matter  to  him  how  Almighty 
God  may  arrange  affairs  about  him.  In  sun  or 
storm,  in  success  or  failure,  God  knows  best. 
Lemans  knows  he  is  a  lonely  pawn  on  the  board, 
and  he  is  contented  so. 

One  result  of  all  this  is  that  it  is  none  too  easy 
to  get  him  to  talk  much  about  his  work.  He 
would  never  write  a  book  about  it,  and  I  sup- 
pose he  would  never  allow  himself  to  write  to 
any  one  as  I  am  writing  to  you.  That  is  the 
queer  thing  about  people  like  Lemans.  Sup- 


OF  THE, BITTER  CROSS  143 

posing  he  met  yon,  he  could  hardly  possibly  do 
other  than  love  you,  could  he?  And  although, 
of  course,  you  are  you  to  me,  I  should  have 
thought  he  might  have  met  some  one  somewhere 
who  would  flutter  his  dove-cot  for  him.  If  he 
did,  what  would  he  do  ?  He  would  be  in  this,  as 
in  other  things,  so  much  greater  than  I,  I  sup- 
pose, that  this  too  would  be  crushed  out  of 
sight,  or,  shall  we  say,  poured  out  as  a  sacrifice 
to  Almighty  God?  If  so,  would  he  be  wise,  or 
would  he  be  foolish? — that  is  the  question. 

Most  of  us  are  tempted  to  say,  foolish,  and  I 
tell  you  honestly  I  am  not  sure  that  he  is  not, 
only  I  object  strongly  to  conventional  hum- 
drum, stodgy  people,  who  acquiesce  in  bour- 
geois social  and  moral  rules,  calling  him  foolish. 
The  kind  of  Englishman  who  would  call  Fr. 
Lemans  foolish  is  the  man  who  mistakes  a  fit  of 
passion  for  love,  and  finds  out  his  mistake,  but 
settles  down  to  ordinary  middle-class  married 
life,  with  the  assistance  of  regular  heavy  meals, 
and  a  business.  To  my  mind  that  man  is  a 
thousand  times  more  of  a  fool.  Lemans  makes 
a  sacrifice  for  the  sake  of  an  ideal;  the  other 
felbw  lives  without  ideals  for  the  sake  of  con- 
ventions. He  is  neither  a  decent  Christian  nor 
an  honest  pagan.  I  think,  if  I  hate  any  one,  I 
hate  him. 

But  there  is  something  in  the  creed  of  the 
honest  pagan.  The  sunshine  is  so  good,  flowers 
are  so  gay,  the  grass  is  so  green,  the  world  so 


144  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

wide,  human  nature  so  lovable,  and  God  so 
remote.  When  I  think  of  these  things,  I  wonder 
often  if  the  creed  of  the  Cross  is  not  a  mistake. 
I  remember  how  the  little  waves  laugh  in  the 
sun  on  the  white  sands  of  green  coral  islands  set 
in  the  blue  sea;  I  remember  how  the  moon 
comes  up  over  the  desert,  transforms  the 
hovels,  illuminates  the  minarets,  and  glistens  on 
the  great  fronds  of  the  palms ;  I  remember  how 
the  wild  flowers  gleam  in  the  grass  under  the 
tall  beeches  of  the  forests  of  the  Ardennes ;  yes, 
and  I  remember  the  tinkle  of  laughter  and  'the 
chink  of  glasses  on  the  marble-topped  tables  of 
the  boulevards,  while  the  taxi-lights  twinkle 
down  the  wide  streets,  and  Paris  is  Paris.  Just 
to  live  for  all  these  and,  much  more,  with  you, 
would  it  not  be  good?  Would  it  not  even  be 
right?  Where  and  who  is  God  that  the  shadow 
of  Him  should  darken  our  paths  ?  After  all,  did 
He  not  make  these  things,  and  did  He  not  mean 
us  to  dance  our  little  May-fly  lives  in  the  good 
sun  of  His  creation?  At  least,  He  never  meant 
us  to  live  in  a  suburban  villa  with  half  a  dozen 
yards  of  smoky  shrubs  in  front  and  the  next- 
door  neighbour  ?s  gramophone  sounding  through 
the  thin  wall,  and  with  our  lives  bounded  by 
office  or  shop.  He  could  not  have  meant  us  to 
pass  the  golden  days  mere  moving  cogs  in  the 
great  heedless  machine  which  the  greed  of 
modern  man  has  made,  and  in  which  so  many 
dwarfed  souls  acquiesce. 


OF  THE  BITTER  CROSS  145 

But  the  biggest  proof  that  Fr.  Lemans  is 
right  is  set  forth  in  those  books  which  picture 
the  wonderful  tenderness  and  good  humour  and 
love  that  can  exist  in  such  surroundings.  Per- 
haps you  do  not  see  the  connection,  but  I  believe 
it  is  there.  Books  like  Mr.  Riley's,  that  picture 
the  unselfishness  that  can  exist  in  a  Bradford 
slum,  are  the  finest  testimonies  on  earth  to  the 
reality  of  the  soul,  and  if  the  soul  is  real,  then 
God  is  real,  and  self-sacrifice  is  real,  and  ideals 
are  real.  Then  it  is  better  to  have  an  ideal  and 
endure  for  it  than  to  have  no  ideal  and  laugh  in 
the  sun.  It  is  better  that  one  ?s  soul  should  grow 
through  pain  and  discipline  than  that  it  should 
be  lulled  to  sleep  with  the  song  of  birds  and  the 
magic  soundlessness  of  the  moon  and  stars. 

The  amazing  thing  is  that  such  ideals  can 
become  so  much  more  dominant  than  the  world 
in  which  we  live.  Even  I  know  that.  I  can 
travel  among  these  mountains  and  see  no 
beauty  in  the  rocks  and  krantzes,  no  laughter  in 
the  flick  of  the  little  lizards  that  dart  across  the 
way,  no  peace  in  the  widening  valleys,  and  no 
joy  in  the  wind.  Or  I  can  travel  when  the  driv- 
ing rain  makes  me  laugh,  and  to  be  forced  to 
camp  on  some  barren  summit  when  there  is 
next  to  nothing  for  the  fire  and  still  less  for  the 
pot  is  just  a  joke.  I  can  hardly  bear  the  sight 
of  Cyril  and  his  people  sometimes,  and  at 
others  I  can  smile  at  their  stupidity  and  feel 
myself  moved  to  heartfelt  tenderness  by  their 


146  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

sin.  Why,  do  you  say?  Why  because  if  there 
be  light  in  the  soul,  the  whole  wide  world  is 
good;  and  if  there  be  darkness,  there  is  no  sun 
in  a  tropic  sky.  And  we  are  all  like  that.  You 
are,  I  know. 

But,  oh,  what  pitiful  playthings  of  the  great 
Powers  we  all  are,  too !  Even  our  ideals  deceive 
us,  and  what  is  to  be  done  when  ideals  clash? 
Suppose  there  is  a  girl  somewhere  whose  ideal 
is  Fr.  Lemans  and  his  love,  while  his  ideal  is 
that  grim  blackened  cross !  Can  religion  dictate 
to  her  that  her  ideal  must  be  the  cross  likewise? 
Has  it  that  dread  right,  I  wonder?  I  lay  oppo- 
site the  good  priest  and  imaged  it — a  little  home 
in  France  under  a  laughing  Provengal  sky  and 
a  hard-faced  middle-aged  peasant  woman  from 
whom  vanished  a  score  of  years  ago  the  hope 
and  light  of  life.  I  daresay  she  is  regular  at 
mass,  and  I  can  see  her  set  face  over  her  beads. 
She  works  from  sunrise  to  sunset;  and  before 
the  kitchen  fire  in  the  evenings,  when  the  big 
pot  simmers  and  the  peaceful  cat  basks  in  the 
warmth,  she  sees  grim  pictures  of  what  might 
have  been,  and  what  must  be,  in  the  flames. 
There  are  very  many  such  for  one  cause  and 
another,  are  there  not?  Patriotism,  Love,  Be- 
ligion — what  monsters  they  are !  Men  dare  and 
die  for  them,  and  their  names  are  written  on  the 
scrolls  of  History,  but  what  of  the  pitiful  vic- 
tims they  have  crushed  beneath  their  feet? 

I  believe  there  are  fools  who  quibble  at  the 


OF  THE  BITTER  CROSS  147 

Garden  of  Eden  story,  but  what  fools  they  are ! 
If  ever  a  world  lay  under  a  curse,  it  is  this. 
Probably  Lemans  is  right,  and  we  deserve  it 
and  must  accept  it.  Probably  he  is  right  also 
when  he  thinks  that  the  good  God  is  far  more 
sorry  than  we,  that  His  Heart  is  very  pitiful, 
and  that  He  is  preparing  a  better  place  for  us. 
It  cost  Him  the  Cross  to  do  it,  and  it  will  cost 
us  the  cross  to  reach  it.  That  is  the  Catholic 
Religion.  And,  like  the  Berg,  there  are  days 
when  it  is  very  lovely  and  days  when  it  is  very 
cruel. 


17.    OF  TERESA 

YESTEEDAY  I  wrote  you  a  letter  that 
ended  rather  sadly,  but  I  began  by  saying 
that  I  had  expected  a  delightful  day.  It 
had  been  delightful,  although  I  did  not  feel  like 
it  when  I  came  to  take  up  my  pen  to  write  to 
you.  But  I  mean  to  tell  you  now  what  made  it 
so  delightful  apart  from  the  fact  that  I  had  met 
dear  old  Fr.  Lemans.  For  in  the  morning  we 
set  out  together,  and  his  tongue  was  unusually 
loose,  or  rather  it  became  loosened  as  we  rode, 
and  he  told  me  one  or  two  delightful  stories 
that  it  does  one  good  to  hear. 

He  began  as  we  passed  a  village  high  up  on 
the  hillside.  We  were  riding  low  down  in  the 
valley,  and  he  had  visited  the  place  the  day 
before.  He  pointed  it  out  to  me  and  said: 
"That's  one  of  my  places — about  a  hundred 
souls  altogether,  and  practically  every  one  a 
Christian. " 

"Oh,"  said  I,  "it's  rather  remarkable  to  find 
a  village  wholly  Christian.  I  suppose  they  were 
your  people  down  below  and  trekked  up  here?" 

"No,"  he  replied,  "it's  altogether  a  different 
story.  Care  to  hear  it?" 

Of  course  I  said  I  should,  and  he  told  me  what 
follows : 

148 


OF  TERESA  149 

Fifteen  years  or  so  ago  there  was  only  one 
Catholic  in  that  place,  an  old  widow,  who  lived 
much  alone,  and  whom  Fr.  Lemans  used  to  come 
and  visit  two  or  three  times  a  year  when  he  was 
in  these  parts.  For  seven  years  he  came,  and 
each  time  he  was  well  received,  preached  to  the 
heathen,  and  gave  the  Sacraments  to  this 
woman;  but  there  was  never  a  convert.  As 
always,  it  was  not  that  the  people  had  any  other 
definite  faith  or  that  they  disbelieved  what  he 
told  them,  but  only  that  they  preferred  polyg- 
amy and  the  rest  of  it,  and  apparently  the  Holy 
Spirit  was  not  moving  in  their  hearts. 

One  evening,  then,  towards  the  end  of  that 
time,  he  was  sitting  in  his  hut  in  the  village 
after  supper  and  saying  his  office,  having  come 
for  one  of  his  visits.  There  came  a  knock  at  the 
door,  and  he  put  his  finger  in  the  book  to  mark 
the  place  and  said:  "Come  in." 

The  old  widow  entered.  She  sat  down,  and 
for  a  while  she  had  nothing  but  commonplaces 
to  say.  He  began  to  wonder  why  she  had  come, 
as  he  had  already  talked  with  her  and  heard  her 
confession,  when  she  said  suddenly  (to  put  it 
into  vernacular  English) :  "Look  here,  Father, 
this  can't  go  on!" 

"What  can't  go  on?"  he  demanded  in  aston- 
ishment. 

"Why,"  she  explained,  "here  have  you  been 
coming  to  this  village  two  or  three  times  a  year 
for  seven  years.  Each  time  you  preach  to  the 


150  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

heathen,  and  they  listen,  and  when  you  have 
gone  they  say  how  true  your  words  are  and  that 
doubtless  they  ought  to  become  Christians.  But 
they  do  not.  Once  I  thought  the  wife  of 
Mojakasane  (for  so  I  will  call  the  headman) 
would  become  a  hearer,  but  she  caught  a  fever 
in  the  winter  instead,  and  died.  And  now  I 
grow  old ;  it  cannot  be  that  I  have  many  more 
years  to  live.  When  I  die,  you  will  not  come  so 
much,  if  at  all,  to  this  place,  and  it  is  plain  to 
me  that  we  must  do  something." 

She  stopped,  out  of  breath.  It  was  a  long 
speech  for  her.  Fr.  Lemans  wondered  what 
was  coming  but  he  tried  not  to  show  it.  Instead 
he  said:  "Well,  but  what  can  we  do?  I  do  not 
know  what  else  to  say,  and  you  pray  for  them 
regularly,  do  you  not!" 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "but,  Father,  the  Holy 
Saints  did  more.  I  am  no  saint,  but  a  sinful  old 
woman,  yet  is  my  life  my  own,  and  I  have  plenty 
of  time.  Now,  if  it  seems  good  to  the  priest,  let 
me  offer  myself  to  God  for  these  people.  I  am 
too  old  and  too  ignorant  to  become  a  nun,  but 
could  I  not  live  up  here  in  some  such  way  as 
the  good  sisters  live  down  below?  And  maybe 
God  would  see,  if  I  gave  myself  altogether  to 
Him,  and  would  have  mercy  on  these,  my 
people. ' ' 

"What  would  you  propose?"  asked  Fr. 
Lemans  curiously. 

The  old  woman  hesitated.    "It  is  little  I  can 


OF  TERESA  151 

do,  oh,  Father/'  she  said  apologetically.  "But 
did  not  Our  Lord  tell  us  in  the  Holy  Gospel  to 
fast  and  pray?  If  now  I  prayed  at  night,  and 
before  the  sun  is  up,  and  at  sunrise,  and  at 
midday,  and  when  the  sun  is  near  setting,  and 
at  sunset,  and  before  I  sleep,  and  if  I  did  not 
eat  until  sunset  three  times  a  week,  and  then 
but  stilly -sliilly,  maybe  Our  Lord  would  have 
respect  to  my  petition." 

"But  you  cannot  read,"  objected  the  priest. 
"So  what  would  you  pray?  And  what  would 
you  eat  on  the  other  three  days  ? ' ' 

"Let  not  the  priest  think  me  foolish,"  depre- 
cated the  old  woman.  "It  is  only  I,  old  Teresa, 
that  speak.  It  is  true  I  cannot  pray  the  prayers 
of  the  sisters,  but  I  can  say  the  rosary;  and  I 
am  old  and  thin :  on  the  other  days  I  need  not 
eat." 

I  suspect  that  Fr.  Lemans  was  startled  out  of 
his  habitual  calm,  but  he  did  not  show  it.  "You 
could  not  do  so  much,"  he  said  almost  roughly. 
"You  would  fail  and  break  your  rule.  It  is 
better  to  try  less  and  to  succeed." 

Tears  came  to  old  Teresa's  eyes.  "No,  my 
father,"  she  pleaded.  "Let  me  but  try.  And 
do  you  ask  the  good  sisters  to  pray  for  me  down 
below  that  I  may  not  fail." 

He  told  me  that  he  consented,  and  that  when 
she  had  gone  happily  away  he  went  out  and 
stood  under  the  stars.  And  a  fragment  from 


152  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

the  Holy  Gospel  came  to  his  mind:  "I  have  not 
found  so  great  faith,  no,  not  in  Israel." 

So  next  morning  at  mass  Teresa  made  her 
vow,  and  knelt  on  as  in  a  trance  while  he  packed 
up  his  goods.  Nor  did  she  speak  as  he  left. 

It  was  towards  the  end  of  the  season,  and  he 
went  straight  back  the  four  days'  journey  to 
Eoma.  A  few  weeks  later  the  snows  fell,  and  a 
hard  winter  set  in.  Well,  to  conclude  it,  he  was 
at  the  midday  meal  one  day,  when  he  was  told 
a  native  wanted  to  speak  with  him.  He  went 
out  and  found  a  herd-boy  whom  he  did  not 
recognise.  "Lumela,  my  son,"  he  said,  " whence 
come  you?" 

"I  come  from  Mojakasane's,  oh,  Father," 
said  the  boy,  "and  I  bring  the  words  of  Teresa 
the  old.  She  sayeth:  'If  the  father  will,  let  him 
come  speedily,  for  I  die.'  " 

"Is  she  very  ill?"  demanded  Fr.  Lemans, 
looking  at  the  snow  and  thinking  that  it  was 
four  days'  trek  even  in  summer. 

"She  has  not  left  her  house  these  many 
weeks,"  said  the  boy,  "and  I  heard  my  mother 
say  that  she  could  not  live. 9 ' 

So  Fr.  Lemans  went  back  to  the  house  and 
saw  the  Bishop,  and  he  gathered  his  things  and 
his  pack,  and  that  same  afternoon  he  set  out. 
He  did  not  say  anything  to  me  of  the  journey, 
but  I  could  fill  in  the  gap.  I  know  a  little  what  the 
mountains  are  like  when  the  wind  blows  over 


OF  TERESA  153 

the  snow  and  the  days  are  short.  But  on  the 
sixth  day  he  arrived  at  the  village. 

They  were  looking  out  for  him.  Mojakasane 
greeted  him. 

"Did  the  priest  come  by  the  lower  road 
across  the  drift  yesterday?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  said  Fr.  Lemans.  "Why  do  you 
ask?"  ' 

"Then  Teresa  had  a  true  dream  and  saw 
him  yesterday,"  said  the  man.  "She  saw  him 
when  his  horse  stumbled  by  the  bank  on  the 
ice,  and  she  cried  out  lest  the  father  should  slip 
off." 

Fr.  Lemans  stared  at  him,  for  it  was  so. 
"Lead  me  to  her,"  he  said  shortly.  "You  talk 
much,  Mojakasane." 

She  lay  on  her  blankets,  very  thin  and  very 
feeble,  and  he  saw  that  she  was  indeed  dying. 
He  crossed  over  to  her,  and  kneeled  by  her  side. 
"Praise  to  Our  Lady!"  she  said  weakly.  "I 
knew  the  priest  would  be  in  time." 

He  gave  her  the  Sacraments  then  and  there, 
and  she  seemed  stronger  after  them.  When  all 
was  over,  she  held  his  hand  and  said  sadly: 
"Oh,  my  father,  thou  wert  right,  and  I  was 
wrong.  I  should  not  have  expected  that  God 
would  listen  to  the  prayers  of  such  as  I.  Now 
I  die,  for  He  does  not  wish  me  so  to  live." 

Fr.  Lemans  was  much  moved.  "Teresa,"  he 
said,  "you  must  not  speak  so.  Who  can  tell  the 
Mind  of  God?  His  ways  are  past  finding  out. 


154  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

What  you  have  done  you  have  done  lawfully 
and  in  faith ;  let  us  leave  it  with  Him. ' ' 

At  that  she  was  a  little  comforted,  and  at  last 
slept,  but  just  before  she  fell  asleep  she  said  to 
him  after  a  long  silence :  "  If  but  one  had  been 
converted,  I  should  know  that  God  had  had 
respect  unto  my  prayers. " 

"Teresa,"  he  said  again,  "you  cannot  know 
the  Will  of  Almighty  God." 

After  a  little  he  left  her,  for  he  too  was  very 
tired,  and  he  did  not  wake  until  in  the  dawn  a 
woman  came  to  him.  "Teresa  is  dead,"  she 
said.  "We  thought  she  slept,  but  we  find  that 
she  is  dead." 

He  stayed  for  the  funeral,  and  watched 
rather  sadly  while  they  threw  in  the  hard  earth. 
Even  then,  he  told  me,  he  did  not  expect  what 
would  be.  But  as  he  left  the  place  Mojakasane 
came  up  to  him. 

"Father,"  he  said,  "I  would  become  a 
hearer  ..." 

"That  was  seven  years  ago,"  Fr.  Lemans 
added.  There  was  a  church  there  now,  and  all 
had  become  Catholics  these  several  years.  Her 
grave  lay  just  beyond  the  east  wall  of  the 
church;  "but,"  said  he,  "I  think  her  place  is 
with  the  holy  saints." 

We  did  not  speak  for  several  miles  after  that. 
Then  I  asked  if  he  had  seen  such  faith  and 
devotion  in  many  of  his  flock.  "No,"  he  said, 
"in  very  few.  There  was  one  case  of  a  young 


OF  TERESA  155 

man — you  might  like  to  hear  that — but  for  the 
most  part  they  do  not  seem  to  have  it  in  them, 
not  yet,  at  any  rate,"  he  added  tranquilly.  "It 
is  no  use  looking  for  flowers  before  a  great  deal 
has  been  done,  and  even  after  the  ploughing  and 
sowing  it  is  first  the  blade  and  then  the  ear. 
At  present  we  are  not  much  beyond  the  young 
plant  stage,  and  it  is  a  difficult  country.  The 
seedlings  have  many  enemies;  but  we  can 
wait." 

I  nodded.  It  is  so.  But  it  is  rather  beautiful 
that  there  should  be  even  one  such  story  pos- 
sible up  here  on  the  hard,  rough  Berg.  It  is  not 
a  story  that  would  count  for  much  among  the 
people  who  deal  in  gold  and  diamonds  and  sway 
the  destinies  of  this  country,  nor,  for  that  mat- 
ter, would  I  care  to  tell  it  to  most  of  the  people 
I  might  meet  in  your  drawing-room,  my  dear. 
But  I  am  glad  to  have  been  able  to  tell  it  to  you. 
I  think,  deep  down  in  your  heart,  you  will 
rather  treasure  it,  though  you  hear  so  much  of 
the  other  side  of  missions,  and  I  suspect  you  of 
laughing  a  little  even  at  me  at  times!  She 
would  have  been  the  roughest  of  diamonds,  you 
know.  I  expect  she  wore  the  dozen  or  more  of 
skirts  beloved  of  Basuto  women,  ate  her  por- 
ridge with  her  fingers,  and  spat  vigorously 
from  time  to  time  on  the  floor.  Yet  of  such  is 
the  Kingdom  of  God,  and,  to  be  honest,  I  tell 
you  the  story  that  the  work  she  did  therein  may 
not  be  limited  to  Mojakasane's  village. 


18-    OF  WILFKID 

I  SHALL  first  tell  you  the  thing  as  he  told  it 
to  me,  and  you  can  make  your  own  com- 
ments, if  indeed  you  want  to  make  any. 
You  can  guess  how  hard  it  is  for  a  parson  not 
to  point  a  moral,  but  I  have  done  that  so  many 
times  in  these  letters  that  now  I  shall  refrain. 
It  is  Fr.  Lemans  who  speaks — you  remember 
Fr.  Lemans? — and  he  is  speaking  to  me  as  I  lie 
stretched  out  on  the  grass  outside  old  Mallont's 
store  watching  the  drying  of  my  blankets  in  the 
hot  sun,  which  is  very  necessary,  seeing  that 
Spider  chose  to  attempt  the  swimming  of  a 
river  with  them  on  his  back  but  yesterday.  It 
is  not  done  by  respectable  pack-horses  fully 
loaded.  But  then,  as  you  have  doubtless  often 
felt,  none  of  us  in  my  little  outfit  are  over- 
respectable.  I  have  forgiven  Spider  because  he 
thus  won  for  me  a  day's  rest  and  this  story,  and 
I  hope  you  will,  too,  before  it  is  finished.  So 
now: 

(Fr.  Lemans.)  Yes,  I  agree  with  you  about 
native  teachers.  They  must  have  supervision 
at  this  stage,  and  our  present  systems  of  educa- 
tion are  not  planned  for  the  Bantu,  worse  luck ! 
But  it  isn't  only  education  they  want.  For  it's 

156 


OF  WILFRID  157 

not  too  often  one  finds  a  Christian  native  with 
a  real  vocation  to  the  ministry.  I  fear  they 
think  a  great  deal  about  the  money  and  the 
position  .  .  .  Priests?  Well,  of  course,  we've 
no  native  priests  on  the  Berg,  not  yet.  Nuns, 
yes,  but  not  priests.  Of  course  they  would  have 
to  be  celibate  and  members  of  an  order.  They'd 
get  their  clothes  and  their  food.  They  would 
have  no  lands,  no  wife,  no  children,  no  cattle. 
If  priesthood  with  you  meant  that,  how  many  of 
your  natives  would  come  forward,  do  you  sup- 
pose? 

But  I've  known  one  vocation — a  rather  strik- 
ing affair.  I  think  once,  talking  about  old 
Teresa,  I  just  hinted  at  it  to  you.  I'll  tell  you 
the  story  if  you  like. 

It  was  a  few  years  ago  now,  and  I  was  up  here 
for  a  baptism.  We  had  had  our  three  days' 
retreat  in  the  village,  and  after  the  Sacrament 
I  was  going  to  my  hut,  when  a  boy  came  up  and 
said  he  wished  to  speak  to  me.  I  stopped.  "All 
right,"  I  said.  "What  is  it  I" 

"I  cannot  tell  the  father  here,"  he  said.  "Let 
us  go  to  his  house." 

So  we  went  to  my  house,  and  we  both  sat 
down.  The  boy  plunged  into  it  straight  away. 
"I  want  to  be  a  Catholic,  Father,"  he  said. 

I  told  him  I  was  glad  to  hear  it,  that  he  must 
come  to  the  classes  regularly  and  start  at  once 
to  say  his  prayers,  and  I  wrote  his  name  down. 
Just  the  usual  thing,  you  see,  and  when  I  had 


158  PILGRIM  PAPERS1 

finished  I  expected  him  to  go,  but  not  a  bit  of 
it ;  he  sat  on. 

6 ' Well,"  I  said,  "what  next!" 

"I  want  to  tell  the  father  why  I  want  to 
repent,"  he  replied,  "if  the  father  will  listen  to 
me." 

I  was  rather  tired,  but  I  told  him  the  father 
would  listen,  and  he  told  me  this  tale. 

"A  week  ago,  my  father,  I  was  asleep  in  my 
hut.  I  was  a  heathen,  and  I  had  not  been  much 
to  church.  Suddenly  I  awoke,  and  I  saw  that 
there  was  some  one  in  the  room.  I  could  just 
see  that  there  was  some  one,  but  no  more.  I 
was  sleeping  in  a  little  hut  alone,  and  the  hut 
was  nearly  full  of  wheat  bags  and  skins,  so  that 
I  thought  perhaps  a  man  had  come  in  to  steal. 
Therefore  I  cried  out  loudly:  'Who  is  it?' 
There  was  no  answer,  and  as  I  was  about  to  speak 
again,  still  rolled  up  in  my  blankets — for  I 
feared  to  get  up — I  noticed  a  wonderful  thing. 
The  figure  was  getting  plainer,  and  there 
seemed  to  be  a  light  about  it.  I  was  frightened, 
and  although  I  tried  to  shout  loudly,  I  could 
only  whisper:  'Who  is  it?'  once  more. 

' '  Then,  my  father,  while  I  watched,  the  figure 
grew  very  plain.  It  moved  over  to  me,  and  it 
was  a  man,  and  there  was  a  light  in  his  breast. 
He  came  close  to  me  and  looked  at  me,  and  I 
looked  into  his  eyes,  and  as  I  looked  I  knew  that 
I  must  be  his  servant.  He  did  not  speak,  but  he 
lifted  one  hand  and  pointed  to  the  light  on  his 


OF  WILFRID  159 

breast,  and  I  saw  that  beneath  his  coat  there 
was  the  likeness  of  a  heart  on  fire  and  red.  And 
then,  as  I  stared,  he  said  to  me  three  times  very 
distinctly:  ' Wilfrid,  thou  hast  not  chosen  Me, 
but  I  have  chosen  you.7  Each  time  as  he  said  it 
I  saw  him  less  clearly,  and  I  heard  less  clearly, 
and  at  the  last  I  could  hardly  see  his  face  or 
hear  his  words.  And  afterwards  I  saw  him  no 
more.'7 

The  boy  stopped.  Now  you  know  these 
native  visions  and  dreams  as  well  as  I  do.  I 
daresay,  if  it  had  happened  to  me  when  I  first 
came  out,  I  should  have  been  much  impressed, 
but  now — well,  I  had  been  in  the  mountains  many 
years,  and  I  knew  how  often  these  people  are 
converted  by  dreams.  I  thought  to  myself  that 
the  boy  had  seen  such  a  picture  many  times; 
and  as  for  the  rest — ah,  well,  the  good  God 
knows!  What  shall  we  say? 

So  I  was  not  very  surprised,  impressed  you 
would  say.  No,  but  I  would  not  hurt  the  boy, 
so  I  said:  "Yes,  it  is  plain  God  has  called  you. 
You  saw  Our  Lord  of  the  Sacred  Heart.  Whom 
do  you  know  by  the  name  of  Wilfrid?" 

"The  father  speaks  true,"  he  said.  "This 
very  day,  when  he  held  up  the  new  picture,  I 
Saw  again  the  man  of  my  dream.  That  is  why  I 
have  come  to  the  father  now.  As  for  the  name 
4 Wilfrid,'  I  do  not  know  it  at  all,  but  it  is  plain 
it  is  to  be  my  name  when  I  am  baptised." 

I  heard  him  in  silence.    I  thought  to  myself 


160  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

that  I  would  not  question  him  closely  on  either 
point,  first  that  he  had  not  seen  a  picture  of  the 
Sacred  Heart  before,  and  second  that  he  had 
not  heard  the  name  of  Wilfrid.  You  know  these 
people.  They  often  lie ;  whether  they  mean  all 
their  lies,  who  can  say?  Perhaps  he  truly 
thought  he  had  not  seen  the  picture;  perhaps 
he  only  meant  that  he  had  not  understood  Who 
it  was.  It  was  a  little  thing,  and  besides  the 
dream  was  only  one  among  many  that  I  had 
heard.  So  I  asked  no  questions.  I  said: 
"Good-night,"  and  perhaps  a  few  words  more, 
and  the  boy  went.  The  thing  passed,  too,  almost 
from  my  mind. 

But  as  time  went  on  I  began  to  notice  Wil- 
frid, as  I  shall  call  him  at  once.  I  used  to  see 
him  three  or  four  times  a  year,  and  always  he 
was  at  Eoma  for  Easter.  He  was  very  quiet, 
and  he  was  very  good.  He  learnt  most  quickly, 
so  much  that  he  knew  all  that  he  had  to  know 
for  Baptism  before  he  was  even  a  catechumen. 
For  all  that,  I  would  not  hurry.  I  made  him 
wait,  and  for  two  years  I  watched  him  more  and 
more,  until  I  was  very  interested  when  the  time 
came  for  his  Baptism. 

He  came  to  Roma  for  it,  as  he  was  most 
anxious  to  do,  and  I  have  never  before  or  sftice 
seen  any  native  so  devout.  He  prayed  always 
before  the  Sacrament,  and  when  he  made  his 
confession  I  wondered  for  the  light  there  was 
in  his  soul.  After  it  he  did  not  at  once  go; 


OF  WILFRID  161 

instead  he  said  to  me,  but  hesitatingly: 
"Father,  there  is  something  I  would  say  to 
thee." 

"Say  on,  my  son/'  I  said. 

"Dost  thou  remember  the  vision  of  Our  Lord 
which  I  told  thee  whereby  I  was  called  into  the 
Church?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "I  do.  It  was  a  great  mercy 
of  the  good  God,  and  you  should  give  Him  great 
thanks." 

He  nodded  eagerly.  "  It  is  so,  my  father, ' '  he 
said.  "But  my  thanks  are  little.  What  are  my 
words,  that  I  should  be  able  to  thank?  More- 
over, Our  Lord  spoke  to  me,  and  I  have  yet  to 
obey  His  words." 

"You  are  to  be  baptised  to-morrow,"  I  said. 
"Surely  in  that  you  will  obey  them." 

"In  that  I  shall,"  he  replied.  "But— let  my 
father  forgive  me — I  do  not  think  they  will  be 
finished  then." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  demanded,  for  I  had 
had  no  such  case  before. 

"I  would  be  a  priest,  Father,"  he  said. 

Now  at  that  I  was  astonished.  As  I  have 
said,  it  was  more  than  I  would  have  expected.  I 
knew  that  the  boy  knew  well  enough  what  it 
meant — our  people  of  course  do — and  I  was 
silent,  thinking  for  a  while.  Then  I  spoke,  and 
it  was  plain  immediately  that  I  had  said  the 
right  thing. 


162  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

"You  are  the  one  son  of  your  father,  and  he 
is  a  heathen;  is  it  not  so,  Wilfrid?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes, "  he  said. 

"What,  then,  will  your  father,  the  headman, 
say  when  he  hears  that  his  son  will  not  raise  up 
children  to  his  name?"  I  demanded. 

"I  fear  to  tell  him,"  said  the  boy  simply. 

Well,  of  course,  you  know  as  I  do  what  chil- 
dren mean  to  a  native.  I  saw  trouble  looming 
ahead,  and  I  also  saw  the  greatest  temptation 
for  the  lad.  Thinking  quickly,  I  thought  to 
myself  once  more  that  while  I  ought  not  to  dis- 
courage him,  I  had  better  not  make  too  much  of 
it.  So  I  said:  "Look  here,  Wilfrid,  to-morrow 
you  will  be  washed  from  your  sin.  After  that 
go  home  and  see  how  you  can  live  as  a  Chris- 
tian. Say  no  more  to  any  one,  and  on  the  day 
you  first  receive  the  Blessed  Sacrament  we  will 
speak  of  these  things  again." 

He  came  from  the  font  next  day  with  shining 
eyes,  and  he  went  off  home  with  the  rest.  But 
this  time  I  remembered  and  prayed  for  him. 

Months  later  he  wrote  me  a  letter.  In  it  he 
said  his  father  was  urging  him  to  marry,  and 
had  chosen  the  girl,  but  that  he  had  begged  for 
nothing  to  be  done  till  after  Easter,  when  he 
would  be  at  Eoma  for  his  first  communion.  I 
read  that  letter  several  times.  It  did  not  say 
much,  but  somehow  it  said  a  great  deal.  Then, 
like  the  Jewish  King,  I  went  into  the  Sanctuary 
to  spread  it  out  before  the  Lord. 


OF  WILFRID  163 

Easter  came,  and  with  it  Wilfrid.  We  were 
very  busy,  we  priests,  of  course,  and  I  had  no 
chance  in  Holy  Week  to  speak  with  him.  But 
it  was  I  who  gave  him  the  Blessed  Sacrament  on 
Easter  Day,  and  I  just  noticed  that  his  eyes 
were  fast  closed  as  I  placed  the  Host  on  his 
tongue.  And  that  evening  he  came  to  speak  to 
me. 

He  came  into  my  room  and  remained  stand- 
ing before  me.  He  was  very  quiet,  but  his  eyes 
shone;  they  shone  as  I  have  never  thought  to 
see,  but  as  I  have  read  of  eyes  shining  in  fhe 
lives  of  the  holy  ones;  indeed,  they  shone  so 
that  I  did  not  speak.  But  he  began  at  once. 

"This  morning,"  he  said,  "He  Whom  I  saw 
before  came  to  me  with  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
Himself.  He  did  not  speak  at  all,  but  I  looked 
into  His  eyes,  and  I  saw  there,  my  father,  what 
I  had  seen  before,  and  more.  Oh,  my  father, 
I  cannot  marry:  I  must  keep  myself  for  Him, 
only  for  Him.  And  I  have  come  to  thee  that 
thou  mayest  help  me,  my  father." 

Now  I  was  in  a  difficulty.  I  thought  quickly. 
We  had  no  place  for  him,  and,  moreover,  I  still 
wondered  myself  as  to  his  vocation.  If  I  was 
wrong,  God  forgive  me.  There  had  already 
been  talk  of  his  going  to  school,  but  his  father 
would  pay  no  fees,  and  he  had  no  money.  What 
could  be  done?  Then  I  thought  that  possibly 
they  would  take  him  in  Natal,  only  I  could  not 


164  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

say  at  once,  and,  besides,  it  would  mean  seeing 
the  Bishop  and  much  correspondence. 

" Wilfrid,"  I  said,  "if  Our  Lord  wants  you 
to  be  a  priest,  He  will  help  you.  Go  back  home 
now,  and  I  will  see  what  I  can  do.  Eefuse  to 
marry,  and  I  will  write  to  you  as  soon  as  I  have 
anything  to  suggest.  If  you  have  a  real  voca- 
tion, never  forget  it,  and  keep  yourself  from  all 
hindrances." 

"I  will,  my  father,"  he  said.  "Besides,  this 
morning  I  vowed  myself  to  Our  Lord." 

He  spoke  very  quietly,  and  he  did  not  again 
emphasise  his  immediate  difficulties,  so  that  I 
did  not  think  more  of  them.  I  was  doubtful 
over  the  wisdom  of  his  vow,  and  I  wondered 
what  he  had  said,  but  I  judged  it  best  to  say 
little.  Perhaps  I  was  foolish,  God  knows.  Still ; 
all  I  said  was  '  *  God  keep  you,  Wilfrid,  and  Our 
Lady  have  you  in  her  prayers. J ' 

"I  think  so,  Father,"  he  said  quaintly  after 
the  native  manner,  and  we  talked  of  a  few  in- 
different things.  Then  he  went. 

About  Christmas,  if  I  remember  rightly,  a 
man  came  down  from  his  village,  and  I  asked 
after  Wilfrid.  "He  is  gone  to  the  mines  in  the 
City  of  Gold, "he  said. 

I  was  genuinely  astonished  and  sorry.  I 
questioned  him,  but  got  no  answer  that  threw 
any  light  on  the  affair.  He  did  not  know 
Wilfrid's  address,  and  I  could  only  pray  that 
God  would  keep  him  in  the  midst  of  such  great 


OF  WILFRID  165 

peril  to  his  vocation,  if,  indeed,  he  had  one, 
which  I  now  began  again  to  doubt.  And  a  year 
went  by. 

One  day  I  came  back  from  a  two  months' 
trek,  and  after  greetings  one  of  the  fathers  said 
to  me : l '  Oh,  by  the  way,  there  is  a  boy  dying  in 
the  hospital  who  much  wants  to  see  you.  He 
comes  from  the  mountains  somewhere. " 

"What  is  his  name?"  I  asked,  and  they  told 
me.  It  was,  of  course,  Wilfrid,  and  he  was 
dying  of  rapid  consumption,  caught  in  the 
mines.  He  had  been  brought  in  at  his  own  re- 
quest to  die  in  our  hospital. 

I  went  at  once  to  see  him,  and  I  hardly  knew 
him,  so  shrunken  and  thin  he  was.  But  there 
was  still  the  light  in  his  eyes,  for  which  I 
thanked  God.  We  could  talk  only  a  little,  and  I 
promised  to  bring  him  the  Blessed  Sacrament 
next  day,  but  he  was  very  weak.  I  did  not  like 
to  question  him  about  his  going  to  the  mines. 
Nor  did  he  say  anything,  and  so  we  parted. 

But  that  very  night  I  was  sent  for,  about 
midnight,  with  a  request  to  go  to  him  with  the 
Sacraments.  I  hurried  to  the  church  and  then 
to  the  hospital,  and  I  found  him  indeed  plainly 
dying.  But  he  was  radiant.  He  knew  the  end 
was  coming,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  had 
something  he  was  anxious  to  say  the  while  I 
administered  the  last  rites  to  him.  And  when 
they  were  over,  it  came  out.  "I  had  to  go  to 
the  mines,  Father/1  he  said,  "or  my  father 


166  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

would  have  forced  me  into  the  marriage.  As  it 
is  he  has  already  paid  the  cattle  for  the  girl, 
and  she  is  waiting  at  my  place.  He  wrote  to 
tell  me  of  it  while  I  was  there,  in  the  City  of 
Gold,  and  then  I  did  the  only  thing  I  could  do : 
I  threw  myself  on  our  Lord,  and  I  begged  that 
He  would  not  forget  that  He  had  chosen  me. 
And  quickly  this  sickness  came,  oh  my  father, 
and  now  I  go  to  Him.  Oh,  yes,  grieve  thou  not, 
for — for  He  has  chosen  me." 

He  was  very  weak,  and  he  could  say  no  more. 
I  just  held  his  hand,  and  I  think  I  said  that  I 
understood.  He  lay  with  closed  eyes  till  the 
dawn,  while  I  watched  and  wondered  if  he 
would  speak  again.  But  he  did  not  with  his  lips. 
Only,  just  as  he  died,  his  eyes  opened  wide 
again,  and  there  was  that  in  them  more  radiant 

still  of  which  I  cannot  speak. 

***** 

"They  shall  come  from  the  east  and  the  west 
and  the  north  and  the  south,  and  sit  down  with 
Me  in  the  Kingdom  of  My  Father. " 

"And  I  looked,  and,  lo,  a  Lamb  stood  on 
Mount  Sion,  and  with  Him  an  hundred,  forty 
and  four  thousand,  having  His  Father's  Name 
written  on  their  foreheads.  .  .  .  These  are  they 
which  are  virgins,  and  which  follow  the  Lamb 
whithersoever  He  goeth." 


19.    OF  SOME  SICK  VISITS 

THIS  has  been  a  morning  of  sick-visiting, 
and  I  am  spending  an  afternoon  of  soak- 
ing rain  writing  to  you  about  it.  After 
mass  and  a  scrap  of  breakfast  we  started,  the 
catechist  and  I,  I  carrying  the  Blessed  Sacra- 
ment. The  school-children  had  lined  up  very 
simply  and  naturally  outside,  making  a  kind  of 
avenue  from  the  church  door  to  my  horse,  held 
by  Cyril,  and  as  I  came  out,  bearing  our  Lord, 
they  all  fell  on  their  knees.  Cyril  held  my 
bridle  while  I  got  on;  then  he  too  knelt  on  the 
stones.  And  without  words  the  catechist 
wheeled  his  pony  and  rode  off,  and  I  followed. 
It  was  the  sort  of  morning  that  you  love,  and 
I  thought  of  you  incessantly,  despite  What  I 
carried,  as  we  went.  We  had  not  to  go  down 
to  the  river,  but  up  and  round  the  mountain,  in 
and  out  of  clefts,  over  shoulders,  up  crests,  mile 
after  mile.  We  were  soon  high  above  the  Mis- 
sion and  up  in  a  magical  world  of  clouds.  The 
storms,  blanketed  in  white  mist,  would  come 
sweeping  down  on  us,  hiding  the  river  valley 
far  below,  till  we  wandered,  at  that  height, 
seemingly  on  the  roof  of  the  world.  It  is  still 
very  early  spring  here,  and,  save  that  the  grass 

167 ' 


168  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

is  green,  the  country  looks  dead — not  a  tree,  not 
a  flower,  nothing  of  that  verdant,  luxurious 
vegetation  which  in  the  semi-tropical  summer 
will  clothe  the  course  of  the  little  mountain 
streams,  nothing  but  the  irregular  scraps  of 
ploughed  land,  dotted  here  and  there  on  the 
hillside,  without  hedge  or  boundary  stones,  and 
the  bleak  mountain  sides.  It  certainly  was  not 
pleasant  going.  First  we  were  wet;  then  the 
wind  would  dry  us ;  then  round  the  peaks  would 
come  the  swishing  mists  again,  and  we  would 
be  once  more  wet ;  then  again  we  were  dried  and 
had  a  snatch  of  sunlight;  and  then,  just  as  it 
was  beginning  to  rain  again,  we  made  a  dash 
for  it  and  reached  the  huts. 

You  would  not  think  people  would,  or  per- 
haps even  could,  live  up  here.  In  comparison 
with  the  plains  below  any  of  these  Berg  vil- 
lages, such  as  that  near  the  church,  seem  grim, 
small,  and  poverty-stricken,  but  in  comparison 
with  that  these  that  we  had  been  passing  on  our 
three-hour  ride  were  much  smaller  and  poorer 
again.  Yet  it  is  surprising  how  many  people 
there  are  here;  in  almost  every  mountain  fold 
a  hut  or  two,  and  here  four  huts  make  a  village. 
It  was  such  a  village  we  had  reached,  and  in  the 
four  huts  live  a  dozen  adults  at  least.  They 
came  flocking,  with  the  children  too.  The  tiny 
hut  was  ready  for  me,  swept  and  partly  emp- 
tied, with  skins  on  the  floor  and  a  rough,  home- 
made wooden  stool  waiting  for  transformation 


OF  SOME  SICK  VISITS  169 

into  an  altar.  The  folk  crowded  in,  "rough 
souls ' '  and  poor,  but  I  mean  it  when  I  say  wise 
souls  and  rich.  Listen  while  I  tell  you. 

I  had  come  to  give  Communion  to  a  sick 
crippled  woman  of  middle  age  who  cannot  walk 
at  all.  I  draped  the  stool  and  placed  my  cross 
and  candle,  robed  myself,  and  was  ready.  It 
comes  almost  as  a  shock  to  find  how  familiar 
they  are  with  the  prayers  in  so  remote  a  place, 
these  Christians  of  ours  who  have  certainly 
learnt  wonderfully  these  last  few  years,  what 
time  they  have  assumed  Mary-medals  and 
rosaries.  But  I  shall  not  write  of  that,  rather 
of  a  little  incident  at  the  close. 

The  vestments  were  off  at  last,  and  I  came  to 
shake  hands  with  the  cripple.  She,  however, 
was  fumbling  with  a  dirty  rag  beneath  her 
clothes,  and  at  last  produced  a  small  bundle. 
Many  knots  had  to  be  wrestled  with,  but  finally 
a  coin  appeared,  and  was  held  out  to  me  for 
" collection. "  I  took  it,  wondering;  it  was  a 
sovereign.  "Do  you  want  change?"  I  asked, 
and  doubtfully,  for  I  had  none.  This,  however, 
she  did  not  even  understand,  and  it  had  to  be 
explained  at  great  length,  for  she  had  never 
changed  a  coin  in  her  life.  When  she  under- 
stood, she  emphatically  refused,  and,  as  I  stood 
still  doubtfully  turning  over  the  gold,  I  was  told 
the  story. 

It  appears  that  I  communicated  her  before, 
three  years  ago,  before  I  went  to  the  war  in 


170  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

East  Africa,  and  that  that  had  been  her  first 
communion.  When  I  had  left,  she  had  been 
much  troubled  because  she  had  had  no  money 
offering  to  make.  She  never  had  had  a  coin. 
A  cripple,  and  of  course  unmarried,  she  had 
just  existed  in  that  tiny  village,  fed  and  clothed 
in  rags  by  somewhat  grudging  relations,  who 
had  little  use  for  such  as  she ;  but,  as  I  say,  she 
had  been  much  troubled  over  her  lack  of  money 
for  her  offertory.  Then,  a  year  later,  a  brother 
came  to  see  her  on  his  way  to  his  own  village 
with  the  money  of  his  year's  wool  and  grain 
just  sold  at  the  store,  and  in  a  fit  of  generosity 
he  had  given  her  a  pound.  God  knows  what 
that  sovereign  must  have  represented  to  that 
woman !  Her  friends  could  have  bought  her  at 
the  distant  store,  sugar,  and  coffee,  and  beads, 
and  a  new  piece  of  coloured  stuff  for  her  head, 
and  sugar  again,  all  but  unlimited  sugar.  I 
fancy  her  turning  it  over  and  over,  questioning 
as  to  the  store  she  had  never  seen  (which,  you 
know,  is  a  wonderful  palace  of  delights  to  these 
people)  and  as  to  the  treasures  potentially  hers 
— and  then  remembering  the  collection.  Of 
course  it  was  a  good  chance  that  no  priest  would 
ever  come  her  way  again,  as  none,  I  suppose, 
now  ever  will,  for  I  should  think  that  she  is 
dying.  But  she  lapped  the  only  money  she  ever 
had  had  in  all  her  life  in  a  dozen  folds  of  rag, 
and  hid  it  in  her  clothes  against  my  possible 
return.  And  three  years  later  it  fell  out  that  I 


OF  SOME  SICK  VISITS  171 

came,  and  at  her  second  communion  she  gave  all 
her  treasured  fortune  to  her  God.  Oh,  my  dear, 
these  poor  rough  souls!  Perhaps  I  am  an 
emotional  fool,  but  I  tell  you  I  groped  my  way 
out  of  that  hut  blind  for  the  moment  with  tears. 

We  struck  off  transversely  to  make  a  second 
visit,  and  this  again  was  to  a  woman,  recently 
baptised  in  sickness  by  the  catechist.  She  lives 
in  one  of  two  huts  perched  up  like  an  eagle's 
nest,  and  she  turned  out  to  be  the  oldest  native 
that  I  have  ever  seen.  She  was  crouching  over 
a  tiny  dying  fire  in  a  hut  full  of  smoke,  babies, 
dogs  and  chicken.  There  were  many  smells. 
I  was  given  a  seat  on  the  floor,  and  promptly  lit 
a  cigarette. 

That  started  it,  for  she  had  never  seen  a 
cigarette  before.  It  seemed  to  me  amazing  to 
find  a  creature  so  remote  from  the  world, 
especially  as  she  can  hobble  about  a  bit  and  has 
all  her  faculties.  But  soon  it  appeared  that  I 
was  only  the  second  white  man  she  had  seen, 
except  for  a  distant  view  of  a  Government 
Police  Inspector  on  border  patrol.  (The  other 
had  been  the  E.G.  itinerant  priest  who  had 
visited  a  relation  in  some  huts  lower  down,  not 
long  after  the  Boer  war.)  So  all  this  led  to 
talk,  and  I  tried  to  find  out  her  age. 

Well,  she  had  come  there  "long,  long,  long 
ago,"  when,  as  she  said,  there  were  practically 
no  people  in  these  mountains.  She  had  fled 
with  her  son,  since  dead,  when  the  ' i  slayers ' J  of 


172  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

her  husband  had  been  sent  by  the  chief  to  eat 
up  all  that  was  his.  In  these  remote  mountains 
she  had  shaken  off  the  bloodhounds,  oh,  "long, 
long,  long  ago."  She  had  been  old  when  the 
magistrate  and  the  store,  later  on,  had  come 
into  these  parts,  too  old  to  go  with  the  rest  and 
see.  She  remembered  the  great  Moshesh,  as 
far  as  I  could  make  out  before  he  had  con- 
solidated his  power.  She  must  be  easily  a 
hundred  years  old,  possibly  a  hundred  and  ten. 
It  is  staggering  to  think  of  the  period  that 
that  old  souPs  life  has  covered.  When  Welling- 
ton fought  Napoleon  she  was  alive,  I  daresay. 
She  was  a  woman  before  a  white  man  crossed 
the  Orange  (unless  it  were  some  chance 
hunter),  before  the  Voor-trekkers,  before  an 
ounce  of  gold  had  been  found  at  Johannesburg, 
or  a  diamond  at  Kimberley.  In  those  days  there 
was  neither  steamship,  nor  train,  nor  bicycle, 
nor  motor-car,  nor  aeroplane,  nor  breech-load- 
ing rifle,  nor  a  tin  of  preserved  food,  nor  a 
safety  match,  nor,  I  think,  a  safety  pin,  in  the 
whole  wide  world,  European  soldiers  still  car- 
ried halberds  into  action  (they  did  at  Waterloo, 
you  know) ;  they  still  cut  off  limbs  in  cold  blood 
and  dipped  the  stump  into  boiling  oil ;  and  that 
most  terrible  of  all  beasts  of  prey,  the  bacillus, 
was  still  unguessed  and  unsubdued.  And  I  be- 
lieve I  should  be  right  in  asserting  that  the  only 
Church  of  England  clergyman  in  what  is  now 
the  Union  of  South  Africa  plus  Ehodesia  was  a 


OF  SOME  SICK  VISITS  173 

military  chaplain  at  the  Cape.  Yet  is  even  she 
now  sought  out  in  my  unworthy  person. 

I  asked  whose  were  the  figures  on  the  medal 
she  wore  about  her  neck. 

" Mary,  the  Mother  of  God/'  she  said,  "and 
Jesus." 

"And  Who  is  He?"  I  asked. 

"God,"  she  said  simply. 

At  that  I  wondered  much,  more  than  you  can 
think.  Here  had  I  found  in  one  morning  two 
souls  richer  far  than  some  episcopal  dignitaries 
of  my  Church. 

Then  we  knelt  to  pray.  I  must  say  she  is  a 
unique  and  astounding  old  soul,  for  at  a  hun- 
dred she  had  been  able  to  learn  the  "Our 
Father,"  the  "Hail  Mary,"  and  the  "Glory  be 
to  God."  It  may  not  seem  much  to  garner  in 
a  hundred  years,  perhaps,  and  it  is,  I  suppose, 
a  frail  enough  equipment  for  the  great  journey 
that  lies  so  soon  before  those  tottering,  hard- 
ened feet,  but  I  think — don't  you? — that  it  will 
carry  her  through. 

I  am  quite  willing  to  confess  to  you  that  the 
conditions  of  the  after- world  are  utterly  beyond 
my  understanding.  I  accept  Heaven  and  Hell, 
and  a  place  of  Purgation  and  Preparation, 
partly  because  the  only  authority  that  I  can  see 
in  this  world,  or  that  I  trust  at  all,  teaches  me 
so,  and  after  all  there  is  a  measure  of  reason  in 
them.  It  seems  plain  and  reasonable,  too,  that 
there  will  be  progression  and  steps  by  which 


174  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

one  will  mount  to  the  Throne  of  God ;  but  other- 
wise I  am  a  sheer  agnostic.  I  preach  and  argue 
about  spiritual  things,  it  is  true,  and  I  can  see, 
as  it  were,  tags  sticking  out  of  the  tangle  which 
may  perhaps  straighten  out  into  threads,  but  on 
the  whole  it  is  a  conflicting  and  incomprehen- 
sible mystery.  Often,  among  the  people,  I  am 
entirely  dazed  by  it,  dumbfounded  as  to  what 
men  will  make  of  Almighty  God  or  Almighty 
God  of  men.  Paris,  London,  the  worshippers 
in  St.  PauPs,  as  well  as  the  professional  girls  of 
our  modern  streets,  only  add  to  my  bewilder- 
ment. In  my  library  there  are  books  and  books 
on  the  subject,  the  intellectual  wealth  of  the 
world's  universities,  but  frankly  they  do  not 
help  me  much.  Doubtless  all  this  is  largely  my 
own  fault  and  my  own  stupidity,  but  you,  my 
dear,  have  confessed  to  me  that  you  are  in  much 
the  same  boat.  Hence  I  want  to  suggest  to  you 
two  new  teachers,  a  crippled  woman  and  a  cen- 
tenarian, on  the  face  of  the  Berg.  They  have 
learned  so  little,  and  they  know  so  much. 


20.    OF  THE  BISHOPS'  PEAYEBS 

DO  you  know,  I  have  never  yet  addressed 
a  missionary  meeting  without  having  an 
uneasy  feeling  afterwards.  I  always 
feel  as  if  I  had  created  an  entirely  wrong  im- 
pression, and  I  remember  how  distinctly  I  was 
aware  of  having  had  a  wrong  impression  given 
me  by  many  missionary  meetings  when  I  first 
came  out  to  Africa.  It  is,  of  course,  all  but  in- 
evitable. A  speaker  necessarily  selects  interest- 
ing episodes,  days  that  were  at  least  days  of 
action  and  in  some  sort  successes,  with  which  to 
occupy  half  an  hour's  talk,  more  especially 
when  the  financial  aid  of  his  work  depends 
largely  on  that  half  hour.  He  may  be  very  far 
from  wishing  to  create  a  false  impression,  in- 
deed, personally,  I  have  nearly  always  tried  to 
emphasise  the  fact  that  I  had  to  omit  an  account 
of  the  routine,  the  monotony,  the  failures,  in 
my  speeches ;  but,  try  as  he  will,  that  other  im- 
pression is  created.  You  see,  there  is  the  colour 
and  the  beauty  and  the  victory;  it  would  be 
wrong  not  to  depict  it;  others,  after  all — 
traders  and  officials — speak  enough  of  the  other 
side  in  the  ears  of  the  world ;  and  perhaps  it  is 
impossible  in  half  an  hour  to  give  a  true 
vignette.  I  think  that  is  it.  I  could  not  sketch 

175 


176  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

the  work  on  the  Berg  for  you  so  that  you  might 
see  it  as  I  do  looking  back  over  the  years,  how- 
ever much  I  tried. 

But  in  these  letters  I  begin  to  feel  much  as  I 
used  to  do  after  a  missionary  meeting.  Here 
have  I  been  writing  to  you  evening  by  evening 
almost  the  striking  incidents  of  the  twelve 
hours.  Yet  in  each  twelve  there  have  been 
probably  ten  when  I  had  no  vision  and  no  song, 
and  for  every  day  on  which  I  could  look  back 
and  say,  "Well,  I  must  write  to  her  of  this," 
there  have  probably  been  two  when  I  rolled 
myself  in  my  blankets,  glad  to  sleep  and  forget. 
So,  my  dear,  I  begin  to  feel  that  you  may  be  get- 
ting a  wrong  impression,  and  as  to-day  was  one 
of  the  other  kind  of  days  (albeit  even  this  with 
the  leaven  of  humour),  I  intend  to  write  it  up 
faithfully  for  you. 

It  began  this  way.  I  slept  at  a  store,  as  I  had 
a  round  to  do  yesterday  which  landed  me  there 
after  midday,  and  it  seemed  useless  to  go  on 
another  hour  to  the  church  when  early  this 
morning  I  should  have  to  come  again  from  the 
Mission  past  the  Store  to  reach  yet  another 
village  in  which  there  were  our  people.  So  I 
told  the  catechist  to  be  very  early,  and  turned 
in.  I  was  up  at  six,  dressed  and  in  the  saddle 
half  an  hour  later,  and  there  I  sat.  At  a  quarter 
to  eight  the  catechist  turned  up.  It  was  a 
dullish  morning,  and  he  quite  cheerful,  and,  I 
fancy  honestly  unconscious  of  having  wasted 


OF  THE  BISHOPS'  PRAYERS  177 

my  hours.  At  9.30  we  reached  the  village.  By 
this  time  I  was  tired  and  hungry  and  likely  to 
be  more  so  before  I  could  in  any  way  satisfy  the 
needs  of  the  body.  The  hut  was  just  a  hut,  and 
no  particular  preparations  had  been  made. 
However,  I  set  up  an  altar  and  arranged  every- 
thing, for,  however  poor  the  place  and  however 
simple  the  furnishings,  it  seems  to  me  that 
nothing  should  lack  for  the  coming  of  the  King. 
Then  I  sat  to  hear  the  half-dozen  confessions, 
sat  with  despair  and,  I  fear,  anger  in  my  heart. 
One  woman  at  least  knew  what  she  was  about ; 
the  rest  were  quite  hopeless.  The  last  man  re- 
peated the  Creed  instead  of  the  Confiteor,  nor 
would  he  be  switched  out  of  it,  and  knew  ab- 
solutely nothing  of  what  he  was  there  to  do.  He 
and  the  rest  came  because  the  catechist  told 
them  to  do  so,  all  but  the  first  woman  that  is. 
Afterwards  I  got  hold  of  him  and  began  to  in- 
struct him,  but  then  asked  where  he  came  from. 
He  told  me,  and  that  he  was  going  back  in  a 
few  months.  I  gave  it  up  then ;  I  know  that  in 
that  part  of  the  Anglican  Church  they  do  not 
teach  the  Sacrament  of  Penance. 

Well,  then  we  began  the  mass.  The  hut  was 
crowded,  I  of  course  at  the  altar,  with  the 
catechist  to  serve  and  lead  the  people's  prayers. 
And  the  hopeless  muddle  he  made  of  it !  I  was 
so  distracted  that  I  hardly  knew  what  I  was 
doing,  and  I  should  have  been  happier  alone. 
Yet  the  fellow  has  had  a  year's  training  at  a 


178  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

Catholic  Training  College,  at  my  expense  in- 
cidentally, which  only  shows  that  one  year  will 
not  eradicate  ten  of  ignorance  and  neglect. 

There  were  a  lot  of  heathen,  and  I  preached 
to  them.  Somehow  or  other  I  was  very  moved 
and  tried  with  all  my  heart  to  win  them.  At  the 
end  one  man  came  up  and  said  he  would  like  to 
speak  to  me  privately.  So  I  took  him  aside.  A 
convert  ?  Oh  no ;  he  wanted  me  to  give  him  an 
old  coat. 

And  about  twelve  o'clock  I  had  a  crust  of 
bread  and  a  cup  of  so-called  coffee,  and  after 
that  honestly  thanked  God  for  the  gift  of 
tobacco. 

Of  course  most  of  this  was  not  the  natives7 
fault.  If  I  had  recited,  for  example,  the  Prayer 
Book  Service  of  Holy  Communion  straight 
through  in  a  loud  voice,  the  catechist  would 
probably  have  said  most  of  the  "  Amens"  at  the 
right  time,  and  the  people  would  dutifully  have 
repeated  them  after  him.  Also  they  would  have 
been  able  to  repeat  the  General  Confession  in 
the  same  way.  That  is  what  most  of  them  are 
used  to,  and  that  is  why  most  of  them  know 
nothing.  My  dear,  I  tell  you  my  blood  absolutely 
boils  when  I  think  of  it.  I  fear  I  see  red.  Of 
course  I  have  no  right  to  do  so ;  in  any  case  who 
and  what  am  I  so  to  criticise  my  elders  and 
betters  and  the  incomparable  Prayer  Book?  It 
has  often  been  rubbed  into  me  that  it  is  mad  and 
uncharitable  so  to  do. 


OF  THE  BISHOPS'  PRAYERS  179 

But  the  point  is  that  for  some  reason  or 
another  our  authorities  will  not  understand  the 
mental  limitations  of  these  people.  (Forgive 
me  if  I  write  dogmatically,  won't  you?  It  is 
only  meant  to  be  a  forceful  form  of  argument, 
you  know.)  They  will  not  see  that  the  language 
of  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer,  even  in  their 
own  tongue,  is  utterly  and  entirely  beyond 
them.  Look  here,  it  is  I  Image  the  folk  in  that 
hut  to-day,  five  Christian  women  and  one  Chris- 
tian man  and  some  heathen,  none  of  whom  could 
read,  none  of  whom  ever  mix  with  people  of 
ideas,  to  whom,  in  that  remote  village  perched 
on  a  crag  of  the  Berg,  practically  no  news  of  the 
world  ever  comes,  and  whose  very  vocabulary 
is  limited  to  a  few  score  words  concerned  with 
babies,  mealies,  cows,  and  sheep. 

"Almighty  God,  our  Heavenly  Father,  Who 
of  Thy  tender  mercy  didst  send  Thine  only 
begotten  Son  to  suffer  death  upon  the  Cross  for 
our  redemption;  Who  made  there,  by  His  one 
oblation  of  Himself  once  offered,  a  full,  perfect, 
and  sufficient  Sacrifice,  Oblation  and  Satisfac- 
tion for  the  sins  of  the  whole  world ;  and  didst 
institute  and  in  His  holy  Gospel  command  us  to 
continue  a  perpetual  memory  of  that  His 
Precious  Death  until  His  coming  again  .  .  ." — 
how  much  of  that,  beautiful  as  it  is,  do  you 
think  such  people  would  understand?  Why,  I 
dare  to  say  that  they  do  not  know  the  meaning 
of  half  the  words  even  in  Sesuto,  and  as  to  fol- 


180  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

lowing  the  complex  grammatical  construction — 
oh,  but  why  go  on?  I  suppose  our  English 
fathers  in  God  cannot  disillusion  themselves  of 
the  idea  that  because  it  is  Sesuto  therefore 
Basuto  will  understand  it,  yet  they  would  have 
known,  if  they  had  been  in  France,  that  when 
it  was  English  not  one  Tommy  in  ten  under- 
stood it.  Yet  the  most  ignorant  [Tommy  is  a 
University  professor  compared  to  these,  my 
people. 

To  stand  up,  then,  and  recite  all  this  in  an 
even  and  audible  tone,  while  the  catechist  fol- 
lows with  painful  and  painstaking  energy  in  his 
book  and  blurts  out  "Amen"  when  it  is  indi- 
cated, is  simply  to  waste  one's  time.  Yes,  I 
have  written  it,  and  it  shall  stand.  Of  course 
the  good  native  folk  reckon  that  it  is 
"prayers,"  and  that  you  are  a  white  moruti  and 
doubtless  have  power  with  God,  and  they  will 
put  on  clean  clothes  and  smile  and  shake  hands 
and  come  miles  for  the  same  performance  when 
you  are  about  next  time.  But  for  all  that  it  is 
waste  time.  They  learn  nothing,  and  only  by  a 
miracle  can  grace  filter  through  to  their  souls. 
I  do  not  say  that  Almighty  God  will  not  and 
does  not  work  such  a  miracle,  but  I  do  say  that 
He  does  not  expect  us  to  jettison  our  intelli- 
gences and  wait  for  it.  Yet  I  have  known  a 
holy  man  spend  three  days  in  these  parts, 
'knowing  that  he  will  not  get  back  in  a  year,  and 
devote  the  time  for  public  prayers  of  two  of 


OF  THE  BISHOPS'  PRAYERS  181 

them  to  the  recitation  of  complete  Matins,  with 
the  utmost  reverence  and  decorum  and  edifica- 
tion— to  himself  and  the  angels. 

Of  course  I  do  not  recite  the  Book  of  Com- 
mon Prayer  in  that  even  and  audible  tone.  I 
say  the  Canon  of  the  Mass  all  but  in  silence. 
My  own  people  and  catechists  know  exactly 
what  I  am  doing,  thanks  to  the  ritual  and  the 
bell.  While  I  recite  the  first  part  the  cate- 
chist  says  such  words  as  these,  and  the  people 
after  him:  "0  Almighty  God— Send  Thy  Holy 
Spirit;  Change  this  Bread — into  the  Body  of 
Jesus;  Change  this  Wine — into  the  Blood  of 
Jesus,"  and  at  any  rate  even  the  heathen  know 
what  that  means,  and  marvel.  Then  when  the 
bell  has  rung,  and  the  elevation  has  been  made, 
again  catechist  and  people  speak:  "0  Lord 
Jesus — Thou  art  here — We  worship  Thee  on 
the  altar;  0  Father  in  Heaven — Accept  this 
Sacrifice — of  Thy  Son  Jesus  Christ — Who  died 
on  Calvary — And  is  now  on  the  Altar. ' '  And  in 
the  silent  interval  they  do  not  need  to  be  told 
to  bow  themselves  in  humble,  trustful  adora- 
tion. 

You  see  the  difference,  I  take  it.  I  do  not  say 
that  natives  used  to  this  could  give  you  a  theo- 
logical disquisition  on  the  Eeal  Presence.  I  do 
not  say  that  they  even  all  believe  it.  I  do  not 
want  to  argue  that  it  agrees  or  disagrees  with 
ancient  liturgies,  and  doubtless  it  is  even  hor- 
rifying to  those  who  are  still  in  eager  and 


182  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

clamorous  doubt  as  to  the  precise  moment  of 
our  Lord's  coming  and  the  precise  manner.  But 
I  do  say  that  nobody  is  hindered,  except  by  a 
lack  of  mental  power  which  is  too  great  an 
obstacle  for  anything  short  of  a  miracle  to 
overcome  (and  there  is  such  among  the  na- 
tives), from  perceiving  that  the  Church  teaches, 
to  quote  from  St.  Chrysostom,  that  as  the 
shepherds  found  our  Lord  in  the  stable,  so  do 
Christians  find  Him  on  the  altar.  The  Saviour 
of  the  World,  the  Lamb  of  God,  is  lifted  up  then 
.in  such  a  way  that  the  most  ignorant  may  look 
and  live. 

My  catechist  this  morning,  not  wholly  used 
to  such  a  mass,  lost  his  head,  clung  to  his  Book 
of  Common  Prayer,  rang  bells  wildly,  forgot  to 
say  anything,  and  finally — at  any  rate,  this  is 
the  perplexed  native 's  usual  saving  grace ! — said 
nothing.  So  after  my  communion  I  knelt  down 
and  said  the  easy  prayers  for  him.  Then  I 
started  to  sing  the  " Agnus  Dei,"  and  that  he 
was  able  to  continue  alone  while  I  gave  com- 
munion. That,  too,  they  all  did  take  up,  al- 
though that  again  is  not  provided  for  in  the 
rubrics  of  the  Prayer  Book.  And — may  I  say 
it,  my  dear? — do  you  know  that  even  then,  per- 
plexed, worried,  and  tired  as  I  was,  there  sud- 
denly stole  over  me  a  sense  of  the  peace  of  God 
and  of  a  Presence  beyond  all  words.  It  is  mar- 
vellous and  wonderful  how  He  comes  again  and 
again.  It  is  against  all  reason  to  build  an  in- 


OF  THE  BISHOPS'   PRAYERS  183 

tellectual  position  on  feeling,  against  all-  my 
reason  at  least  to  defend  Anglican  orders  by 
such  an  argument.  I  know  it,  and  I  have  said 
it  a  score  of  times.  But — well,  perhaps  there  is 
a  good  deal  in  Fr.  Faber's  hymn,  after  all: 

"The  Love  of  God  is  wider  than  the  measures  of  man's 

mind, 
And  the  Heart  of  the  Eternal  is  most  wonderfully  kind." 

Besides,  of  course,  strict  Roman  theology 
allows  that,  seeing  I  am  acting  in  good  faith  and 
that  the  people  believe,  they  are  fed  with  the 
Food  of  the  spiritual  Body  of  Christ. 

As  we  rode  home  Augustino  spoke. 

"Why  is  it,  Father,"  he  said,  "that  the 
Prayer  Book  has  so  many  long,  hard  prayers 
and  so  few  short  ones?" 

"Well,  it  was  written  for  English  people,"  I 
said  feebly. 

Silence  for  a  few  minutes.    Then 

"The  father's  prayers  are  very  short  and 
very  beautiful.  The  people  understand  them." 

"They  are  not  my  prayers  especially,"  I 
said.  "And  besides  any  little  prayers  that  you 
might  make  up  and  say  to  Jesus  when  He 
comes,  would  do  instead,  and  they  would  be 
very  likely  better  if  you  made  them  up  your- 
selves. The  priest,  of  course,  has  to  say  the 
hard,  long  prayers,  but  the  people  can  talk  to 
our  Lord  in  their  own  way  from  their  heart." 

"It  is  so,  Father,"  he  said,  "but  this  people 


184  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

is  very  ignorant.  Why,  even  I  grow  mud- 
dled (!).  Will  not  the  father  write  an  easy 
prayer-book  for  us,  that  we  can  understand?" 

"He  will  not,"  the  father  replied. 

"Why  not?"  he  demanded. 

I  looked  at  him.  What  could  I  say?  How 
could  I  tell  him  that  one  such  was  already 
written,  but  that  it  would  be  disloyal  to  give  it 
him?  How  could  I  explain  that  its  doctrine 
would  not  meet  with  general  favour?  How 
could  I  account  for  the  fact  that,  as  no  two 
priests  of  the  Anglican  Communion  ever  cele- 
brate alike,  it  would  tend  to  be  a  sectarian 
action  if  I  were  to  publish  such  a  book,  and  in 
any  case  be  all  but  locally  useless  ?  So 

"It  is  the  work  of  the  Bishops,"  I  said. 

"When  will  they  do  it,  then?"  he  demanded. 

"I  do  not  know,"  said  I. 

Do  you,  my  dear?  Between  ourselves,  does 
anybody? 


21.    OF  A  DISPUTED  QUESTION 

I  AM  writing  down  for  you  to-day  what  I 
wrote  mentally  yesterday,  so  that  I  shall 
write  in  the  historic  present.  It  is  a  most 
wonderful  night  of  stars  and  moon,  oh,  my 
friend,  and  I  have  not  allowed  Cyril  to  pitch 
my  tent  in  order  that  I  may  take  it  all  in.  We 
are  up  again  on  the  great  hill-tops,  having  been 
down  to  the  Berg  Camp,  for,  I  suppose,  the  last 
time.  The  moon  is  so  bright  that  I  can  see 
rocks  and  grass  and  a  little  stream  leaping  and 
tumbling  in  molten  silver.  The  horses  graze 
just  over  yonder,  and  the  night  is  so  still  that  I 
can  hear  them  cropping  the  grass  and  moving 
leisurely  about.  The  stars  are  beyond  my  pen. 
I  am  on  my  back  staring  up  at  them,  and  if  I 
stare  long  enough  I  leave  the  earth  altogether 
and  start  off  up  to  them.  I  can  veritably  feel 
the  solid  world  swinging  away  under  me,  and  I 
am  just  poised,  or  swiftly  fleeting,  through  the 
viewless  wastes  of  air.  But  I  never  make  any 
appreciable  headway,  and,  as  you  can  guess, 
when  I  give  the  effort  up  in  despair,  I  find  that 
I  have  not  even  moved.  All  of  which,  my  dear, 
is  a  parable  of  many  things  and  not  the  least  of 
what  I  must  needs  write  to  you. 

185 


186  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

Do  you  know,  I  am  singularly  happy.  I  sup- 
pose I  ought  not  to  be.  I  pinch  myself  again 
and  again  mentally  to  try  to  feel  hurt,  but  it  is 
no  good.  I  am  happy,  and  there  is  an  end  to  it. 
I  suppose  I  am  happy  because  after  great 
mental  stress  it  is  such  a  relief  to  come  to  a 
conclusion,  and  the  people  who  would  be  an- 
noyed with  me  for  coming  to  this  condition  are 
really  the  people  who  have  no  idea  of  what 
mental  agony  can  be.  Do  you  not  think  hon- 
estly that  the  people  who  call  us  poor  Catholic- 
minded  clergy  of  the  Church  of  England  hypo- 
crites and  traitors  are  rather  hard?  They  can 
never  have  known  what  it  is  to  strive  to  see  the 
right  between  conflicting  claims  till  your  brain 
reels,  and  your  mind  is  in  torment,  and  death 
would  quite  strictly  be  as  much  of  a  relief  to 
you  as  it  was  sometimes  to  those  poor  souls  on 
the  rack.  The  very  rack  itself  was  less  than  the 
torment  of  the  mind  that  honestly  wants  to  do 
right  and  is  not  sure,  and  cannot,  cannot  see. 

And  now,  for  some  reason  or  another,  I  feel 
I  see,  not  very  much,  but  enough,  and  I  am  so 
happy,  after  all. 

But  this  is  rather  putting  the  cart  before  the 
horses,  is  it  not?  To  begin  properly,  I  have  just 
paid  my  last  ministerial  visit  to  the  Europeans 
at  the  Camp.  You  must  picture  the  Camp — the 
Government  Eeserve  with  its  half-dozen  Euro- 
pean houses  of  officials  and  its  two  or  three 
stores,  not  much  in  London,  but  a  great  deal 


OF  A  DISPUTED  QUESTION  187 

when  you  are  trekking  on  the  Berg.  Lest  any- 
thing I  may  say  should  read  rudely,  do  let  me 
write  it  down  at  once  that  kinder,  more  hos- 
pitable, or  more  straightforward  people  I  do 
not  wish  to  meet  than  those  at  this  Camp.  They 
are  all  English,  I  think,  for  the  most  part  the 
Public  School  breed  grafted  on  a  colonial  stock. 
Heavens!  I  believe  I  have  put  my  foot  in  it! 
But  what  I  mean  is,  men  bred  at  home  in  the 
Public  School,  yet  somewhat  more  easy  and 
open-hearted  as  a  result  of  our  mountains  and 
stars  and  winds.  You  could  hardly  better  that. 

I  am  happy,  then,  not  because  I  have  paid  my 
last  visit  to  them,  but  because  it  is  my  last  min- 
isterial visit.  There  are  still  days  of  trek 
ahead,  but  I  have  done  with  the  Camp.  Four 
days  in  all  have  I  been  there,  and  on  the  Sun- 
day, as  usual,  I  celebrated  the  Holy  Com- 
munion, and  then,  later,  said  Matins  and 
preached.  The  previous  Sunday  I  was  among 
natives,  as  I  shall  be  the  next,  and  it  is  because 
I  have  done  with  the  serving  of  two  religions 
that  I  am  glad.  For,  my  dear,  stripped  of  all 
the  study  cobwebs,  that  is  what  it  is.  I  am  a 
Catholic  priest  (in  theory)  on  the  Berg;  I  am  a 
Protestant  minister  (in  fact)  in  the  Camp.  And 
the  two  religions  are  not  beautifully  comple- 
mentary ;  they  are  very  decidedly  contradictory. 

Up  on  the  Berg,  as  you  must  have  seen  by 
now  from  these  letters,  I  just  teach  and  act  in 
accordance  with  my  faith,  and  I  give  the  natives 


188  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

the  simple,  straightforward  Catholic  religion. 
Up  there  Jesus  comes  to  the  altar  in  His  own 
adorable  real  Presence,  and  the  bread  when 
He  has  come  is  only  truly  Bread  if  you  write  it 
with  a  capital  B  as  one  of  His  names.  The 
offering  of  Him  is  a  propitiatory  Sacrifice  for 
the  living  and  the  dead.  Forgiveness  is  nothing 
other  than  the  plan  of  God,  the  Sacrament  of 
Penance.  The  companionship  of  the  saints,  and 
particularly  of  the  most  holy  Mother  of  God,  is 
our  happiness  and  strength,  and  a  God-given 
means  of  grace.  That  is  my  faith  up  there. 

Has  it  ever  struck  you  what  such  as  I  have  to 
do  in  the  Camp?  Believing  all  this,  we  have  to 
act  as  if  we  did  not.  I  tell  the  good  folk  that 
they  ought  "most  chiefly"  to  confess  their  sins 
when  they  assemble  and  meet  together;  and  I 
do  not  believe  it.  I  have  to  place  our  Lord's 
Body  in  the  hands  of  those  who  believe  the 
Sacrament  to  be  no  more  than  bread.  I  have  to 
offer  the  propitiatory  sacrifice  of  the  mass,  not 
in  the  words  of  the  ancient  Western  rite  which 
makes  no  doubt  of  it  at  all,  but  in  the  improved 
phraseology  of  a  turncoat  archbishop  who  most 
definitely  believed  the  very  contrary,  or,  at  any 
rate,  wrote  in  such  a  way  that  people  who  did 
so  disbelieve  might  still  happily  attend  the  ser- 
vice. And  I  have  studiously  to  ignore  the  inter- 
cessions of  the  whole  company  of  heaven  as  if 
that  was  a  matter  of  no  importance,  and  I  have 
to  squeeze  my  own  prayers  for  the  dead  into  a 


OF  A  DISPUTED  QUESTION  189 

crevice  in  the  prayer  for  the  Church  Militant 
here  on  earth.  Now  what  is  this  but  the  serving 
of  two  religions  ? 

Of  course  some  of  my  friends  in  the  ministry 
would  declare  that  I  did  wrong;  that  I  ought 
either  definitely  to  teach  my  faith  and  use  the 
"  additional  devotions"  (how  that  phrase 
makes  me  smile,  because  they  are  so  very  ad- 
ditional that  there  is  mighty  little  left  of  the 
original!)  which  I  use  among  the  natives,  or 
else  that  I  ought  to  stick  to  the  Prayer  Book, 
perhaps,  but  make  it  quite  clear,  in  sermon  and 
manner,  what  I  hold.  Possibly  I  do  attempt  the 
last  in  some  degree,  but  I  am  a  sad  coward,  and, 
what  is  more,  I  believe  I  am  cursed  with  some 
ability  to  see  both  sides  of  a  question.  "  After 
all,"  I  say  to  myself,  " these  good  folk  have 
been  brought  up  in  their  faith  by  wiser,  older, 
and  more  learned  divines  than  I,  and  that  same 
Protestant  faith  of  theirs  is  still  professed,  un- 
rebuked  and  even  honoured,  in  the  Church  at 
home  by  other  wiser,  older,  and  more  learned 
divines."  Here,  too,  there  is  no  choice  of  a  low 
or  a  high  church,  so  that  if  I  drove  them  from 
the  altar  (as  in  some  cases  even  my  moderate 
and  tentative  ministry  has  done,  and  as,  if  I 
did  otherwise,  I  surely  should)  they  would  have 
nowhere  else  to  go. 

Even  more,  I  can  never  escape  from  the  con- 
viction that  they  are  more  right  than  I.  It  is  all 
very  well.  Cranmer  and  Parker  and  Whitgift 


190  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

would  have  had  no  use  for  me.  I  fear  that  even 
Laud  would  have  been  distressed  could  he  have 
journeyed  with  me  on  the  Berg  these  last  few 
months.  Still  more,  even  if  you  reckon  that  this 
is  a  disputed  question,  it  is  a  disputed  question. 
I  mean  that  I  hold  to  one  historic  interpretation 
of  the  Prayer  Book,  and  I  have  taken  my  stand 
on  the  supposition  that  it  is  meant  to  allow 
Catholicism  at  the  least;  that  one  may  supple- 
ment it;  that  it  is  the  Romish,  and  not  the 
Catholic,  doctrine  of  mass  and  relic  and  Purga- 
tory that  the  Articles  forbid.  But  a  third  un- 
biassed person,  having  respect  to  the  weight  of 
learned  opinion  on  either  side,  would  surely  feel 
that  the  question  was  still  in  dispute,  and  that 
therefore  it  is  rough  of  me  to  act  as  if  it  were 
closed  with  these  Englishmen  of  a  different 
opinion  on  the  face  of  the  Berg. 

The  question  that  confronts  such  as  I  am, 
therefore,  is  a  singularly  difficult  one.  It  is  a 
choice  between  a  right  and  a  wrong  each  way, 
and  it  seems  impossible  to  get  both  the  rights  on 
the  same  side.  Am  I  to  accept  what  might  truly 
seem  the  call  of  God  and,  so  accepting,  minister 
in  a  false  position,  or  am  I  to  make  the  position 
honest  but  as  a  result  cease  to  minister?  That 
is  the  present  moral  quandary,  and  you  have  to 
add  to  it  the  continual  worry  as  to  whether 
one's  judgment  about  the  Church  of  England 
at  all  is  right  or  wrong — as  to  whether  she  is 
or  is  not  a  living  part  of  the  Catholic  Church. 


OF  A  DISPUTED  QUESTION  191 

Surely  we  are  more  to  be  pitied  than  most  men, 
especially  when  we  labour  under  the  frown  of 
those  in  high  places  and  in  an  unsympathetic 
and  hostile  atmosphere. 

You  may  ask,  my  dear,  why  I  feel  I  have 
settled  the  matter  now.  The  answer  is  very 
simple :  the  Berg  has  done  it  for  me.  Its  silence 
and  majesty  and  unchangeableness  seem  to 
have  been  saying  in  my  soul :  '  '  You  complicate 
matters!  You  try  to  bear  God's  burden!  You 
worry  too  much!  Just  you  do  what  is  plainly 
right,  and  be  still."  And  it  is  perfectly  plain 
to  me  that  it  is  wrong  to  serve  two  masters  and 
profess  two  religions  at  once,  and  that  the 
double-facedness  of  the  Anglican  Church  is  no 
honest  position  for  a  person  who  has  made  up 
his  mind.  My  mind,  such  as  it  is,  is  made  up. 
Like  my  people  up  here,  I  know  perfectly  well 
that  the  ignorance,  rudeness,  and  need  of  my 
soul  are  satisfied  by  the  Catholic  religion,  and 
that  alone.  In  the  Church  of  my  birth  the  truth 
of  the  Catholic  religion  is  held  in  suspense. 
Question  her  as  you  will,  there  is  no  voice  nor 
any  that  answers,  unless  the  answer  she  gives 
is  "I  don't  know,"  or  "I  shan't  tell,"  which  is, 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  what  the  average  man 
understands  her  to  say.  So  long,  then,  as  that 
is  so,  I  am  faced  with  the  intolerable  position 
of  the  Camp  and  the  Berg,  and  I  am  bound  to  be 
in  full  communion  with  those  who  deny  what  I 
believe,  and  whose  denials  have  the  approbation 


192  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

of  the  Church  behind  them  as  much  as  or  more 
than  my  affirmations.  You  may  have  seen  the 
reasons  which  the  Bishop  of  Delaware  has  so 
ably  given  for  his  resignation  of  office  and  min- 
istry in  the  Church  of  England  in  America.  I 
cannot  better  them,  unless  it  be  to  add  that  I 
leave  also  for  something  of  the  reason  that  St. 
John  is  alleged  to  have  left  the  Public  Baths 
when  he  knew  that  Cerinthus  was  inside ! 

But  you  may  still  think  it  strange  that  I 
should  be  happy  when  such  action  involves  so 
much — the  leaving  of  these  people  of  mine  up 
here,  of  whom  I  have  now  written  to  you  often, 
especially.  Should  I  be?  I  wonder.  You  see, 
I  have  never  been  able  to  get  away  from  the 
feeling  that  I  have  been  deceiving  them  all 
along,  for  I  have  been  coaxing  them  into  a 
sheep-fold  alleged  to  be  secure  against  wolves 
when  I  know  that  the  wolves  actually  lurk  there. 
To  cut  out  metaphors,  you  cannot  think  what 
such  work  is  like.  Anglican  Church  natives 
trek  up  here  from  elsewhere  and  find  a  different 
religion  from  that  in  which  they  were  brought 
up.  Trained  catechists  come  to  me,  and  I  take 
them  on,  and  then  have  to  set  about  teaching 
them  a  new  religion.  On  the  other  hand,  my 
people  go  down  from  here,  look  in  vain  for  what 
they  have  learned,  and  become  lax  and  indif- 
ferent for  want  of  the  help  they  need.  And  the 
.  future  looms  with  danger.  Even  now  they  are 
beginning  to  read,  to  get  magazines  from  both 


OF  A  DISPUTED  QUESTION  193 

points  of  view  in  the  Church  of  England,  or, 
even  as  one  boy  of  mine  recently,  papers  by 
Anglican  divines  denying  the  Lord's  Divinity 
and  historic  Eesurrection  and  Ascension.  And 
it  is  I  who  have  steered  them  into  these  troubled 
waters  rather  than  into  the  Harbour  of  the 
Peace  of  God. 

So,  you  see,  although  I  am  sad  deep  down 
at  leaving  those  who  have  taught  me  so  much 
and  who  have  reposed  in  me  faith  and  love,  still, 
in  a  way,  I  am  so  glad  to  be  leaving  a  false  posi- 
tion that  all  this  is  swallowed  up.  How  differ- 
ent it  would  have  been  if  I  had  been  able  single- 
heartedly  to  throw  myself  into  this  work,  know- 
ing that  I  was  building  on  a  rock !  I  cannot  but 
envy  the  priests  of  the  Roman  Mission  here. 
When  a  man  falls  in  that  Mission,  he  can  die 
gladly,  for  he  knows  another  will  step  into  his 
place  to  work  with  the  same  end  in  view  and  to 
teach  the  same  things.  He  knows  he  is  part  of 
a  world-wide  Church  in  which  heresy  is  ruth- 
lessly suppressed.  His  sheep  may  fall  victims 
to  the  wolves,  but  it  will  be  their  own  fault. 
There  are  none  in  the  fold,  nor  can  wolves  enter. 

Thus,  then,  I  do  indeed  grow  sad.  Oh,  my 
dear,  if  only  I  had  been  different !  if  only  I  had 
seen  clearer  years  ago !  if  only  I  had  not  been 
afraid !  But  regrets  are  useless,  and  besides  I 
do  not  think  I  am  of  the  stuff  of  which  such 
priests  are  made.  Of  all  heroisms  I  know  none 
to  excel  theirs.  Faith  is,  of  course,  their  shield 


194  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

and  anchor;  but  for  all  that  it  means  much  to 
give  one's  life  to  these  rugged  mountains,  to 
spend  the  years  tending  these  people,  who,  with 
all  the  glimpses  of  vision  that  they  give  you, 
are  still  stiff-necked,  hard  to  understand,  diffi- 
cult to  befriend.  These  shepherds  have  left 
home,  wife,  children,  fatherland,  the  joy  of  art 
and  study,  the  rewards  of  men,  even  the  joy  of 
seeing  much  accomplished,  the  joy  of  raising  a 
memorial  in  the  earth.  They  are  content,  like 
their  people,  to  live  a  while  on  the  Berg's  face 
and  die,  letting  their  dust  scatter  to  the  winds, 
unknowing  and  unknown.  I  am  not  cut  out  for 
that.  Could  I,  for  example,  have  left  the 
thought  of  you! 

The  thought  of  you!  Yet  have  I  truly  won 
you?  And  I  go  out  now,  alone,  to  what?  I  do 
not  know.  The  Eoman  Church  seems  no  mother 
to  me,  holding  out  tender  arms,  and  I  am  not 
drawn,  as  they  say  converts  are  drawn,  by  the 
beauty  and  art  of  her  churches  and  ritual.  If  I 
go  to  her,  it  will  be  because  I  must  save  my  soul 
and  I  cannot  find  my  Lord  elsewhere.  Yet  as  I 
write  it  is  not  the  face  of  that  age-long  Church 
and  Mistress  that  is  before  me,  but  rather 
yours,  that  I  see  as  so  dear,  so  very  lovely,  so 
tender  in  your  love.  Must  I  surrender  you? 

Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  there  is  a  cloud  over 
the  face  of  the  moon,  and  the  wind  is  stirring 
mournfully  among  the  mountain  grasses,  and 
the  night  grows  chill. 


22.    OF  THE  COST  OF  MISSIONS 

WILL  you  read  a  letter  that  is  one  sus- 
tained "grouse"?     I  rather  want  you 
to  do  so  for  a  reason  that  I  gave  you  the 
other  day,  when  I  said  that  I  always  feared, 
in  writing  and  speaking  about  missions,  the 
painting  of  a  too  golden,  one-sided  picture. 
Here  and  now  I  propose  to  expose  to  you  the 
other  side  as  it  was  shown  to  me  in  a  happen- 
ing begun  when  last  I  was  in  this  village,  and 
concluded  last  night. 

It  was  at  a  place  of  which  I  am  rather  fond, 
where  a  chief  is  building  a  church  for  us  him- 
self, and  in  which  we  had  a  score  of  Christians. 
The  head  of  the  little  Christian  community  is  a 
fellow  with  an  Old  Testament  name  whom  I  will 
call  Hezekiah,  for  his  real  name  is  no  better. 
Hezekiah,  then,  is  a  fairly  wealthy  man  in  flocks 
and  herds,  and  he  has  many  huts,  and  in  one  of 
them  I  have  ever  been  used  to  stay.  Several 
times  have  I  come,  at  the  close  of  a  hot  long 
day,  and  been  very  glad  of  my  reception.  A 
hut  has  been  swept  for  me,  milk  and  bread  and 
sometimes  meat  seemingly  freely  offered,  and  I 
have  felt  myself  among  friends.  When  first  I 
came  to  the  Berg,  I  was  told  by  an  old  priest  of 

195 


196  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

Hezekiah  that  he  had  been  baptised  as  a  child, 
and  might  be  looked  upon  as  the  " elder"  of 
that  little  Church.  When  I  met  him,  I  found 
at  once  that  he  was  very  ignorant,  but  I  heard 
that  he  "took  prayers,"  and  I  did  not  conceive 
that  he  had  any  pretensions  to  be  more  than  a 
Christian  farmer. 

Well,  at  our  last  visit,  then,  after  prayers  and 
supper,  came  the  shock.  Hezekiah  said  he 
wanted  to  speak  to  me,  and  on  coming  in  it  was 
plain  that  the  veneer  had  been  stripped  off.  He 
began  by  saying  that  he  had  come  for  his 
money.  Utterly  mystified,  I  asked,  "What 
money?"  The  money  for  his  work  these  many 
years  as  a  catechist,  he  said.  I  replied  that  I 
had  no  idea  that  he  was  a  catechist ;  where  had 
he  been  trained?  who  had  appointed  him?  still 
more,  what  had  he  done  ? 

That  opened  the  floodgate.  He  named  the  old 
priest,  who  used  before  my  time  to  make  very 
occasional  visits  here,  and  he  said  he  had  been 
appointed  catechist  by  him;  that  ever  since  he 
had  worked  for  the  Mission,  teaching  and  pray- 
ing ;  that  we  had  come  many  times  now,  sleeping 
under  his  roof  and  eating  his  food ;  and  that  he 
was  tired  of  waiting  and  doing  all  this  for 
nothing  at  all.  And  now  he  heard  I  was  sending 
a  new  catechist  .  .  . 

I  am  glad  I  kept  my  temper.  I  asked  for  the 
registers  of  his  classes ;  he  had  none.  I  pointed 
out  that  there  were  practically  no  heathen 


OF  THE^COST  OF  MISSIONS  197 

under  instruction  here,  and  that  that  was  why  I 
was  sending  a  catechist,  recently  trained  at  col- 
lege. I  said  I  had  never  been  told  of  his  ap- 
pointment or  that  any  salary  had  been  prom- 
ised him,  but  that  I  would  write  to  the  old  priest 
and  inquire.  And  finally  I  apologised  for  eat- 
ing food  which  I  had  thought  a  gift,  and  I  asked 
how  much  I  owed  him  for  it. 

In  the  months  that  followed  I  got  at  the  truth. 
The  old  priest  told  me,  astonished,  that  he  had 
never  called  him  catechist  and  made  an  ap- 
pointment, still  less  named  a  salary,  but  that  he 
had  asked  him,  as  a  man  who  could  read,  to  say 
Sunday  prayers.  Hezekiah  had  begged  cassock 
and  surplice,  and  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
monotoning  a  mutilated  version  of  Morning 
Prayer  on  "g"  on  and  off  ever  since.  He  had 
never  taught  or  wanted  to  teach.  He  was  the 
big  man  in  that  black  and  white  church  dress, 
and  the  collects  monotoned  on  "g"  had  been 
the  beginning  and  the  end  of  his  missionary 
labours.  Gradually  the  idea  had  dawned  that 
"the  Mission"  ought  to  pay  him.  And  now  it 
had  all  come  out. 

Last  night  I  called  him  in,  and  did  my  best  to 
put  it  right.  I  spoke  of  the  duty  every  Chris- 
tian man  owed  to  God.  I  told  him  that  none  of 
us  were  "paid"  for  religion,  and  that  even  we 
priests  were  only  given  a  living  wage,  not  as  a 
wage,  but  as  a  means  to  live  and  devote  our 
whole  time  to  God's  service.  I  urged  that,  as  a 


198  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

matter  of  fact,  simple  prayers  and  simple  in- 
structions would  help  people  nearer  to  God 
than  the  sort  of  thing  he  had  been  doing.  And 
— well,  with  the  best  intentions,  I  only  poured 
oil  on  the  fire.  He  was  very  rude.  When  he 
had  gone,  I  gave  way  to  despair,  for  he  had 
shown  me  how  a  mission  can  fail. 

It  is  our  failure.  Cassocks  and  surplices  and 
monotoned  prayers — oh,  shades  of  Pusey  and 
Keble,  these  can  be  the  sepulchres  of  true 
religion!  I  feel  like  a  Puritan  and  a  Noncon- 
formist when  I  think  of  the  folly  of  allowing 
ignorant  natives  to  dress  up  and  recite  Matins. 
Then  I  feel  like  a  Eoman  Catholic  when  I  think 
how  badly  we  fail  to  show  what  the  Church  of 
God  really  is.  To  them  a  nightmare  of  imagina- 
tion, called  The  Mission,  run  by  rich  white 
priests  (why  I  don't  think  they  know),  is  the 
Church,  or  else  it's  "Charch,"  as  they  hide- 
ously say,  our  agency,  like  that  of  the  Mafora 
(or  French  Protestants)  of  the  Ba-Koma  (or 
Eoman  Catholics),  for  Europeanising  the  coun- 
try. The  idea  of  its  being  the  Ark  of  Salvation, 
the  Kingdom  of  the  Poor  Thorn-crowned  King 
in  which  it  is  an  honour  to  serve  for  nothing 
with  all  one's  earthly  goods  and  powers — that 
is  far  from  the  generality  of  our  converts.  So 
have  I  catechists  who  will  not  stir  five  miles 
without  "the  Mission"  finding  them  a  horse, 
or  use  anything  of  their  own  in  the  service 
unless  it  is  paid  for. 


OF  THE  COST  OF  MISSIONS  199 

Poor  Hezekiah !  What  have  we  done  for  him 
these  twenty  years?  Alas !  nothing,  I  fear.  His 
dull  black  mind  is  not  really  enlightened  at  all. 
His  blind  eyes  have  seen  no  vision.  All  his 
praying  and  all  his  dressing  up  has  not  once 
carried  him  to  the  threshold  of  that  other  world 
where  one  falls  on  one's  face  as  one  dead.  The 
Gospel  has  not  really  reached  him  at  all.  His 
religion,  like  his  name,  is  none  other  than  that 
of  the  Kings  of  Israel  and  Judah,  and  maybe 
not  as  good  as  theirs.  He  cannot  be  placed 
among  the  Beatitudes  at  all,  and  if  he  has  mas- 
tered the  Ten  Commandments,  of  what  good 
are  they?  "Master,  all  these  have  I  kept  from 
my  youth  up.  .  .  .  But  one  thing  thou  lack- 
est.  .  .  ."  Hezekiah  has  not  learned  the  initial 
lessons  of  Christ — Love  and  Sacrifice. 

Maybe  I  have  not  said  enough  to  make  you 
see  that  this  is  really  a  true  picture.  If  so,  I 
can  only  ask  you  to  believe  that  I  would  not 
exaggerate  it.  Maybe  you  think  I  ought  not  to 
write  so  of  any  of  our  people,  and  that  in  any 
case  he  is  no  worse  than  many  Europeans.  But 
what  is  the  use  of  always  keeping  silence,  and, 
besides,  is  it  any  excuse  to  compare  him  with 
our  own  pagan  white  folk,  to  whom  the  Christ 
is  no  more  than  a  shadow  in  history?  What  is 
the  use  of  hiding  it?  This  is  where  Missions 
fail. 

Hardly  ever  would  I  dole  out  cassocks  and 
surplices  if  I  had  my  way,  hardly  ever  would  I 


200  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

give  practically  untrained  men  the  Book  of 
Common  Prayer,  and  never,  I  think,  would  I 
teach  them  to  read  its  prayers.  Nor  would  I 
build  them  churches ;  nor,  as  soon  as  there  were 
any  number  of  Christians,  would  I  pay  their 
priests ;  nor,  as  a  priest,  would  I  ever  arrive  at 
a  village  with  money  or  food  or  horses  of  my 
own. 

What  do  you  think  of  all  this  ?  The  dream  of 
a  visionary?  Perhaps,  but  can  you  dispute  the 
dream  with  me?  Is  not  the  Kingdom  within 
you?  Does  it  not  lie  in  love  and  reality  and 
sacrifice?  Is  not  the  church  of  mud  and  reed, 
erected  by  the  people  themselves  because  they 
want  to  build  a  house  to  which  God  may  come 
in  His  Sacrament,  better  than  any  stone  and 
iron  building  built  for  them  by  Europeans  ?  It 
seems  to  me  that  the  whole  essence  of  Chris- 
tianity lies  in  the  life  within.  That  must  spring 
of  itself  and  grow  and  bring  forth  fruit  of 
architecture  and  ritual  and  service  as  well  of 
transformed  lives.  It  did  so  in  Europe,  and  it 
must  do  so  in  Africa.  Augustine  came  barefoot 
from  the  glories  of  Borne,  and  the  church  in 
Canterbury  was  a  lowly  Saxon  building  of  mud 
and  thatch. 

So  with  the  priest,  too.  True,  the  Seventy 
were  sent  out  with  purse  and  staff,  but  still  they 
were  to  abide  only  where  welcomed  and  eat 
what  was  freely  given  them.  So  soon  as  the 
Church  in  any  place  was  formed  and  needed  its 


OF  THE  COST  OF  MISSIONS  201 

whole-time  minister  the  labourer  was  worthy  of 
his  hire,  A  white  man  hired  by  natives !  Even 
so.  It  was  God  Himself  who  said:  "I  am  among 
you  as  he  that  serveth." 

My  dear,  we  mix  up  Christianity  and  Educa- 
tion, Christianity  and  Civilisation,  even  Chris- 
tianity and  shirts  and  trousers.  People  say  one 
must,  but  it  is  a  lie.  I  have  been  a  missionary 
all  my  days,  though  they  may  be  few,  and,  thank 
God,  I  have  never  taught  any  one  to  wear 
trousers !  But  I  have  laboured  all  my  time  with 
a  load  on  my  back,  for  people  would  think  of  me 
as  interested  in  schools  or  as  a  white  man  or  as 
a  Europeanising  agency.  But  the  truth  is  that 
you  do  not  make  a  man  a  Christian  by  teaching 
him  to  read  the  Bible,  or  by  showing  him  how  to 
dress,  or  even  by  making  roads  through  his 
country  and  giving  him  police.  All  is  sub- 
servient to  this :  that  you  awake  his  soul  to  see 
God.  Offer  him  the  simple  sacramental  religion 
of  Jesus  Christ.  He  may  refuse  it,  but  that  is 
not  your  business.  He  may  accept  it;  then  let 
the  rest  follow.  And  if  he  accepts  it,  he  himself 
will  give  of  the  best  he  has  in  labour,  gifts,  and 
love,  to  build  his  own  church  and  to  feed  and 
cherish  his  own  priest.  These  are  the  two  last 
things  of  which  poor  Hezekiah  thinks,  and  no 
wonder,  for  I  do  not  believe  he  has  ever  seen 
what  Christianity  really  is.  A  native  priest 
wrote  the  other  day  publicly  that  Christianity 
was  Education  and  Good  Manners,  and  I  do  not 


202  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

even  blame  him  much,  for  I  fear  we  have  taught 
him  so. 

Possibly,  having  got  so  far,  you  will  still  have 
enough  toleration  left  to  ask  what  I  would  sug- 
gest. Practically  I  believe  the  answer  is  a  very 
simple  one:  the  work  of  Missions  should 
primarily  be  the  work  of  religious  orders,  and, 
just  as  when  a  man  proposed  to  build  a  tower, 
the  work  of  Missions  ought  not  to  be  attempted 
unless  the  cost  has  first  been  considered.  Nor  is 
the  cost  to  be  reckoned  in  £  s.  d.  Raymond  Lull 
reckoned  better  when  he  worked  out  the  sum  in 
blood  and  tears,  Christ's  gospel  can  only  be 
preached  by  Christ's  men.  Father  Lemans, 
with  £  20  a  year,  carried  from  place  to  place  by 
his  people  and  fed  by  them,  never  dispensing 
surplices  and  cassocks  and  never  asking  his  con- 
verts to  recite  the  Breviary  at  one  another,  is 
doing  something.  Very  likely  he  has  his  Heze- 
Mahs :  I  should  not  be  surprised ;  St.  Peter  had 
his  Ananias  and  Sapphira  and  his  Simon 
Magus.  But  Father  Lemans,  like  St.  Peter,  is 
under  no  delusions  in  regard  to  them,  and,  alas! 
we  are. 

There  you  are  .  .  . 

That  is  an  honest  grouse!  But  now  I  am 
going  to  say  the  General  Confession  in  the  first 
person  singular  and  go  to  bed. 


23.    OF  A  MOUNT  OF  TEMPTATION 

SUPPOSE  I  write  you  a  genuine  but  old- 
fashioned  missionary  story  in  the  best 
missionary  society  meeting  style!  I  can 
do  so,  for  one  such  has  just  been  truly  enacted 
with  your  humble  servant  somewhat  prom- 
inently in  the  cast.  It  may  interest  you,  so  here 
goes!  And  wasn't  my  last  letter  a  horrid 
grouse!  Here  is  the  corrective. 

There  is  a  chief — we  will  call  him  Motseke — 
who  has  asked  me  several  times,  personally, 
and  by  messenger,  to  come  to  his  village,  and 
twice  I  have  tried  to  visit  him.  But  he  has  been 
always  so  delightfully  vague  as  to  the  where- 
abouts of  his  "  place, "  like  most  mountain 
natives,  who  make  no  account  of  half  a  day's 
ride  in  one  direction  or  another,  that  I  have 
never  been  able  to  find  him.  Last  winter  I  de- 
layed a  day  looking  for  him  and  found  him  not, 
but  merely  a  heavy  snowstorm  instead.  How- 
ever, this  time,  seeing  I  have  days  in  some  sort 
to  spare  on  the  Berg  now,  I  set  out  with  definite 
intent. 

I  knew  he  was  on  a  certain  river,  and  I  deter- 
mined to  follow  its  course  till  I  found  him.  The 
map  marked  no  road  and  no  villages,  but  that 

203 


204  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

was  a  little  matter,  for  the  map  was  made  some 
ten  years  ago,  and  everybody,  except  the  people 
who  want  the  Berg  for  the  white  man,  knows 
how  rapidly  the  native  population  is  growing 
and  filling  it.  We  set  out,  therefore,  at  dawn 
one  day  from  a  fixed  point ;  and  we  determined 
to  follow  the  river  until  we  reached  another 
fixed  and  known  point,  for  Motseke  must  lie 
between  the  two.  There  was  a  road  of  sorts, 
but  such  a  road!  The  river,  called  "The 
Twister"  in  the  native,  does  indeed  wind  and 
twist,  and  the  tiny  trail  wound  with  it  round  the 
mountains  through  which  the  Twister  has  cut 
its  way  these  ages  since.  There  is  nothing  more 
tiring  than  such  a  road.  You  come  to  a  great 
fissure  in  the  mountain,  and  across  it,  going 
round  the  bend  to  a  second  fissure,  you  see  your 
trail.  It  is  perhaps  a  few  hundred  yards  away. 
Yet  you  must  follow  the  trail  right  up  the  fis- 
sure, cross  the  inevitable  little  trickle  running 
down  it,  and  wind  wearily  round  the  precipice 
of  the  other  side.  Anything  up  to  an  hour  of 
hard,  stony  work  will  bring  you  at  last  to  the 
point  you  saw. 

For  the  best  part  of  a  day  we  travelled  so, 
and  then  we  cut  up  between  two  peaks  on  to  a 
table-land  that  was  rich  in  grass  and  cattle. 
Things  looked  promising,  for  the  herdmen 
nodded  sagely  at  the  name  of  Motseke.  We 
crossed  the  pastures,  and  towards  sunset  the 
path  fell  away  down  a  valley.  We  rode  harder. 


OF  A  MOUNT  OF  TEMPTATION       205 

Seven  villages  of  dependants  we  passed,  and  in 
the  dusk  made  tlie  eighth,  that  stood  on  guard 
at  the  entrance  to  the  valley.  Cyril  rode  up  and 
inquired,  and  turned  and  waved  his  hand.  Mot- 
seke  was  found  at  last. 

He  came  out,  an  agile,  eager,  hearty,  but 
white-haired  old  man,  and  he  all  but  ran  to  meet 
me.  He  seized  my  hands,  and  began  to  bellow 
to  his  people.  So  excitedly  and  fast  he  spoke 
that  I  hardly  caught  his  words,  but  Cyril  inter- 
jected translations :  "  A  priest  had  come  at  last ! 
For  seven  years  had  he,  Motseke,  been  seeking 
a  priest  to  visit  his  village,  and,  lo !  none  could 

be  found.  He  had  been  to  and  to  

and  to  ,  and  then  he  had  heard  that  I 

travelled  in  the  mountains,  and  he  had  come  to 
me.  Ho!  ho!  ho!  A  priest  had  come  at  last! 
Now  they  would  have  a  school  and  a  church  and 
a  catechist.  Had  I  not  seen  all  the  villages, 
all  his  herds?  and  all  were  mine!"  And  at 
that  point  he  let  go  of  my  hands  to  gesticulate 
and  shout  to  his  men. 

I  told  you  what  sort  of  a  story  this  would  be, 
and  so  you  must  have  the  local  colour.  There  I 
stood,  in  my  dreadful,  tattered  old  Norfolk 
jacket,  my  face  peeled  and  burnt,  my  horses 
around  drooping  with  fatigue.  Before  us  was 
the  semicircle  of  huts  on  the  hillside,  below  us 
the  green  valley,  the  great  river,  and  the  purple 
mountain  barrier  rising  beyond.  Stars  were 
even  then  peeping  in  the  paling  sky,  and  it  was 


206  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

very  still.  Smoke  from  dung  fires  rose  per- 
pendicularly in  grey  columns,  and  one  caught 
the  scent  of  it  while  the  men  came  running  at 
the  old  man's  bidding  with  his  gifts.  They 
piled  them  at  my  feet.  A  sheep,  a  turkey,  a 
couple  of  fowls,  eggs,  milk,  mafi,  a  dish  of  raw 
potatoes  and  some  beans—these  were  among 
the  first  offerings,  and  when  they  had  done  the 
old  fellow  reiterated  that  all  he  had  was  mine. 
He  then  asked  for  how  long  I  would  stay.  "A 
month ?"  "No,"  I  said,  "that  was  impos- 
sible." "Well,  two  weeks,  then?"  I  shook  my 
head.  "A  week?"  "No,"  said  I;  "I  must 
leave  the  next  morning,"  and  so,  much  as  I 
was  grateful  for  his  gifts,  a  few  eggs,  some 
milk,  and  a  bowl  of  mafi  were  all  that  I  wanted. 
Poor  old  fellow!  It  was  really  pathetic.  He 
sat  down  on  a  big  stone,  and  put  his  hands  to 
his  head.  "For  seven  years,"  said  he,  "I  have 
waited  for  a  priest  to  come  to  my  place,  and 
when  he  comes  he  stays  one  night!"  But  I 
could  not  help  it.  I  had  already  spent  more 
time  than  I  could  afford.  I  was  due  at  the  Mis- 
sion, where  people  would  be  waiting  for  me,  in 
two  days,  and  I  knew  it  would  take  all  my  time 
to  get  there. 

I  moved  inside  the  lelapa,  or  semicircular 
fence  of  reeds  which  acts  as  a  break-wind  in 
front  of  the  huts,  and  asked  for  water  in  which 
to  wash.  They  brought  me  a  big  bowl  of  warm 
water,  and  I  stripped  to  the  waist  and  got  down 


OF  A  MOUNT  OF  TEMPTATION       207 

to  it.  In  the  middle  of  my  ablutions  the  old 
chief  came  in,  and  immediately,  to  my  con- 
fusion, called  his  wives  and  his  people  generally 
to  watch.  A  small  crowd  gathered,  and  to  them 
he  made  a  speech  something  as  follows : 

"My  people,  see  the  priest  of  the  Church! 
Have  I  not  always  told  you  that  we  would  have 
a  priest  of  the  Church  here  or  no  Church  at  all? 
You  know  the  native  baruti"  (i.e.,  teachers) 

"of  "  (and  he  named  another  Mission). 

"What  do  they  do  if  they  come  here?  Do  they 
wait  for  me  to  give  them  a  sheep?  No!  They 
demand  it.  Do  they  kill  and  share  it?  No! 
They  drive  it  before  them  to  their  own  place. 
But  this  priest — of  all  our  gifts  he  says,  'Give 
me  but  a  little  milk  and  a  few  eggs,  and  I  am 
content !  Give  me  but  a  little  water  in  which  to 
wash,  and  I  have  all  I  need ! '  Look  at  him  now, 
oh,  my  people !  See  his  white  skin.  His  heart 
is  as  white  as  his  skin !  Did  I  not  say  we  should 
have  a  priest  of  the  Church  or  none?  Did  I  not 
say  well?" 

( Chorus. )  '  *  Ah,  thou  saidest  it !  Thou  said- 
est  well!" 

They  gave  me  a  hut,  of  course,  and  I  dined  off 
hard-boiled  eggs,  bread,  mafi  and  jam,  and  tea ; 
but  then,  before  I  turned  in,  I  went  outside.  It 
was  a  night  of  almost  full  moon,  and  I  climbed 
up  a  little  behind  the  huts  and  sat  on  a  rock  to 
watch.  The  valley  lay  bathed  in  the  misty  light. 

If  I  listened  hard  enough,  I  could  just  hear 


208  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

the  water  of  the  river  a  long  way  off  in  the 
intense  stillness.  Small  sounds,  indeed,  came  up 
to  me  from  the  unseen  huts  of  villages  at  a  dis- 
tance— the  bark  of  a  dog,  the  cry  of  a  child, 
once  the  crow  of  a  sleepy  cock,  that  ended 
ludicrously  as  if  the  bird  had  fallen  asleep 
again  in  the  middle  of  it.  So  I  sat  and  surveyed 
the  native  world,  the  whole  valley  all  but  un- 
visited,  its  villages  unmarked  on  the  map,  un- 
evangelised,  and  I  thought  of  many  things. 

It  did  just  enter  my  head  to  wonder  for  a 
moment  if  it  might  not  be  better  for  me  to  leave 
it  as  I  found  it,  and  build  no  school  and  no 
church.  But  I  thought  so  only  for  a  minute. 
My  withdrawal  would  not  mean  that  Western 
civilisation  would  not  come,  nor  would  it  mean 
that  the  natives  would  cease  to  go  to  mine  and 
store  and  return  with  European  treasures — and 
vices.  Moreover,  Christianity  is  not  to  me  (as 
a  gentleman  in  a  smoke-room  once  put  it)  "a 
highly  developed  philosophy  unsuited  to  the 
native  even  if  he  can  in  the  least  under  stand  it." 
To  me  it  is  the  highway  to  God  of  which  it  is 
written  that  wayfaring  men,  though  fools,  can- 
not err  therein;  it  is  the  ark  that  floats  above 
the  waters  of  a  surely  drowning  world. 

And  yet  have  I  not  already  told  you  that  I  do 
intend  to  go  away?  Well,  my  dear,  that  night 
I  questioned  that  decision  more  intensely  than 
I  have  done  for  any  day  these  last  two  months. 
I  think  that  moonlit  valley  side  was  my  mount 


OF  A  MOUNT  OF  TEMPTATION       209 

of  temptation.  It  may  sound  extreme  to  you, 
but  it  seemed  to  me-  that  these  people  were 
offered  me  if  I  would  but  fall  down  before  the 
Tempter.  "Sacrifice  your  conception  of  truth 
and  right  for  the  empire  of  these" — that  is  how 
it  came  to  me.  There  was  the  appeal  of  their 
weakness,  their  eager  welcome,  their  lovable- 
ness,  and  their  need,  and  against  it  only  that 
my  religious  system  does  not  seem  to  me  honest 
or  true.  But  its  truth  and  honesty  are  in  grave 
dispute,  and  many  hold  that  it  has  both ;  more- 
over, it  is  so  insidious  a  whisper  that  says: 
"You,  and  you  alone,  will  have  to  do  with  them. 
You  can  teach  as  you  will  and  build  as  you  will. 
What  does  the  Lambeth  Conference  or  the 
Anglican  attitude  in  England  matter  to  you  up 
here?  For  the  sake  of  these  poor  souls,  stay 
on!" 

Then  I  remembered  again  the  two  mission- 
aries returning  to  China  at  the  time  of  the 
Boxer  riots.  Urged  to  avoid  peril,  one  said:  "I 
must  return  because  of  my  sheep,"  but  the 
other  answered  more  quietly:  "I  must  return 
because  of  the  Shepherd. "  It  is  a  strange  par- 
adox, but  I,  who  would  stay  on  account  of  the 
sheep,  feel  that  I  must  go  on  account  of  the 
Shepherd.  A  man  must  be  true  to  Christ  first 
— true,  at  any  rate,  to  what  he  cannot  but  feel 
for  himself  is  involved  by  being  true  to  Christ. 

So  in  the  end,  if  it  be  a  conquest,  I  conquered. 
Being  a  modern,  I  knocked  out  the  ashes  of  my 


210  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

pipe  and  went  down  the  rocky  hillside  to  bed, 
but,  my  dear,  it  was  my  boat  and  my  nets  that 
I  left  there,  and  the  dead  to  bury  their  dead. 

Next  morning  I  did  all  I  could  do,  up  to  the 
light  I  have  to-day.  I  chose  a  site  for  a  church ; 
I  settled  details ;  I  promised  windows  and  door 
on  the  part  of  the  Mission  if  they  would  build, 
and  roof — that  is,  I  offered  to  do  what  they 
cannot  do.  And  last,  but  far  from  least,  I  set 
up  a  little  altar  within  that  reed  fence,  and  I 
offered  the  Holy  Sacrifice  in  the  clear,  sweet 
morning  light  in  the  presence  of  the  one  Chris- 
tian woman,  her  half-dozen  christened  children, 
and  at  least  a  hundred  heathen.  To  them  I 
explained  that  I  was  making  the  greatest 
prayer  to  God  on  their  behalf  that  could  be 
made.  If  a  man  would  gain  his  end  of  a  chief, 
did  he  not  bring  sheep  or  ox?  Who  were  we 
that  God  Almighty  and  All  Holy  should  hear 
us?  But  we  brought  in  this  Prayer  a  Victim, 
and  for  His  sake  God  would  hear.  And  that 
Victim?  None  other  than  His  Son,  Who  by  a 
miracle  would  there,  unseen  but  surely,  change 
Bread  and  Wine  into  His  living  self.  And  to 
God's  Majesty  I  said  in  my  secret  heart :  "Have 
Thou  respect,  0  God,  not  to  my  weakness,  my 
ignorance,  my  sin,  but  to  the  Sacred  Victim  on 
ten  thousand  Catholic  altars  this  day  through- 
out Thy  world,  with  which  I  do  at  least  will  to 
be  one." 

As  shortly  after  I  lifted  the  Sacrifice  in  my; 


_,       OF  A  MOUNT  OF  TEMPTATION       211 

hands  for  all  to  see,  my  upturned  face  caught 
the  first  rays  of  the  sun,  just  risen  high  enough 
in  the  east  to  overtop  that  reed  fence.  Its 
splendour  fell  on  the  bowed  and  awed  heathen 
group  behind,  and  dazzled  my  poor  eyes;  and 
to  me  it  seemed  no  less  than  a  sign  that  while  I 
was  yet  speaking  He  had  heard. 

"We  were  camped  on  the  sand 

By  a  fire  so  good  to  see 
Under  a  tree  so  grand, 

And  the  stars  were  over  the  tree. 

"That  night  aside  the  fire 

Learned  I  my  road  to  go — 
In  the  joy  of  a  God's  Desire, 
In  the  ruth  of  a  Rood  of  woe. 

"A  fire  on  a  rock  in  the  sand 
Faith  lit  at  dawn  for  me — 
Under  a  Tree  so  grand, 
With  a  Star  yet  over  that  Tree." 

Arthur  Shearty  Cripps, 


24.    OF  EELICS  AND  FRIENDS 

NOT  long  ago  I  wrote  you  a  letter  in  which 
I  found  myself  talking  to  you  about 
loneliness,  and  I  want  to  go  on  and  tell 
you  something  more  that  is  in  my  heart  to  say. 
For  to-day  we  rode  five  hours  in  the  morning 
under  a  blistering  sun,  and  when  the  midday 
off-saddle  became  a  necessity,  I  told  Cyril  that 
I  would  find  a  spring  of  really  cold  water  and 
some  shade  if  I  had  to  walk  five  miles  for  it.  I 
should  think  I  walked  one  mile  at  least  anyhow. 
The  water  in  the  little  open  streams  was  warm, 
as  it  often  is,  for  it  flows  shallow  over  the  rocks 
with  the  sunlight  on  it  all  day;  but  one  can 
nearly  always  find,  high  up  above  the  stream, 
some  little  cool  spring  that  leaps  up  in  a  bed  of 
green  straight  from  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  to 
trickle  down  to  the  main  current  below.  I  not 
only  found  such  an  one,  but  one  that  sprang  up 
in  a  tiny  cave  completely  sheltered  from  the 
glare  outside.  The  cave  overlooked  a  wide, 
deserted  valley  into  which  the  brook  ran,  itself 
following  a  crevasse  in  the  side  of  the  hill  that 
had  an  air  of  complete  solitude.  There  were  no 
huts  near.  The  grass  was  untrampled,  the 
flowers  ungathered.  The  water  plants  grew 
rank  and  unbroken,  and  when  I  sat  down  and 

212 


OF  RELICS  AND  FRIENDS  213 

kept  still,  there  was  no  sound  at  all  but  the 
trickle  of  the  stream.  It  was  intensely  restful. 
I  thought  of  Piccadilly  Circus  without  the  least 
envy — just  then,  at  any  rate !  And  it  dawned 
on  me  that  I  really  did  not  want  at  that  moment 
even  you ! 

Well,  as  I  lay  in  the  shade  of  that  rock  I  went 
over  in  detail  with  satisfaction  an  orgy  of 
destruction  in  which  I  indulged  a  few  months 
ago.  I  had  turned  out,  then,  all  my  old  letters 
and  papers  and  photographs  and  treasures,  and 
destroyed  them  ruthlessly.  I  barely  kept  one. 
There  were  letters  from  my  people  and  my 
friends,  and  letters  from  the  great  men  (to  me) 
that  I  once  knew — letters  of  congratulation,  ad- 
vice, criticism ;  letters  from  several  parts  of  the 
world  about  my  books;  letters  on  being  or- 
dained, on  leaving  my  first  curacy,  on  coming 
out  to  South  Africa;  and  so  on.  There  were 
photographs  of  boyish  holidays,  of  Cambridge, 
of  my  first  parish — and  all  were  destroyed. 
There  were  poems  and  essays  and  short  stories. 
How  queer  it  is  to  read  what  one  thought  splen- 
did and  treasured  years  ago !  All  went.  There 
were  old  diaries  and  some  faded  flowers  and 
some  quaint  relics,  and  I  burnt  them  all.  At 
first  I  thought  I  would  save  a  few — this  letter 
for  its  signature,  that  for  its  contents;  this 
photograph  for  its  sentiment  and  that  because 
the  subject  of  it  is  a  big  person  to-day;  but  they 
all  went  into  the  fire  in  the  end.  Or  at  least  I 


214  PILGRIM  PAPERS] 

will  be  quite  honest:  I  kept  what  would  pack 
into  a  small  pocket  case,  but  that  was  all.  When 
I  had  finished  I  felt  free  to  go. 

Why  does  one  keep  these  things,  do  you  sup- 
pose? I  expect  you  have  often  read  the  biog- 
raphy of  some  bishop  or  statesman,  and  rather 
wondered  at  the  host  of  relics  there  seemed  to 
be  of  him  when  he  came  to  die.  I  have,  at  any 
rate.  As  one  reads  one  sees  the  man  gathering 
things  about  him  consciously  and  unconsciously, 
not  only  possessions,  but  the  accumulation  of 
years,  little,  worthless  relics  that  he  and  others 
treasured.  This  one,  when  they  come  to  write 
his  life,  tells  a  tale  of  the  nursery,  and  that 
records  an  incident  of  school  life.  Here  is  a 
letter  in  which  one  can  read  what  the  Prime 
Minister  said  to  him  when  he  became  a  bishop, 
and  here  another  telling  us  what  he  said  to  the 
Prime  Minister.  It  flows  on  almost  endlessly, 
but  of  course  there  is  an  end.  And  at  last  you 
have  the  two-volume  biography  at  half  a  guinea 
a  volume,  pre-war  price ! 

Now  do  not  be  a  beast  and  say  either  of  the 
things  you  are  thinking !  To  begin  with,  these 
are  not  sour  grapes.  I  am  not  running  down 
such  people's  biographies  because  mine  is  not 
likely  to  be  written;  indeed,  I  am  not  running 
down  such  biographies  at  all.  I  find  them 
curious  and  interesting,  very  human,  if  a  little 
perplexing.  And  I  did  not  destroy  papers  and 
letters  because  it  would  not  have  done  to  have 


OF  RELICS  AND  FRIENDS  215 

had  them  read!  No,  I  destroyed  them  for  an 
entirely  personal  reason,  for  a  reason  which  I 
herein  intend  to  set  out  before  your  Worship, 
and  which  I  thought  out  all  over  again  at  our 
midday  halt  to-day. 

It  seems  to  me,  then,  that  the  mind  of  man, 
designed  to  be  his  servant,  is  an  extremely 
subtle  and  dangerous  servant.  If  a  man  does 
not  take  care,  his  mind  runs  away  with  him  be- 
fore he  knows  it,  and  that  in  all  kinds  of  ways, 
not  the  least  the  way  in  which  a  person  becomes 
persuaded  to  accumulate  possessions,  and  par- 
ticularly what  I  have  called  relics.  We  say:  "I 
can't  destroy  that:  it  reminds  me  of  So-and-so 
— such  a  person,  such  a  holiday,  such  a  place." 
We  say  (chiefly  to  ourselves):  "Oh,  I'll  keep 
that  letter:  it  will  cheer  me  up  one  day  to  see 
that  So-and-so  appreciated  my  work. ' '  And  so 
the  relics  gather  till  a  man  has  sacks  of  them, 
drawers  full,  boxes  full,  desks  full,  until,  indeed, 
a  man  has  no  idea  what  hosts  of  such  things  he 
possesses,  and  he  cannot  lay  his  hand  on  any- 
thing because  he  has  so  much. 

But  all  that  is  great  foolishness.  It  ties  up 
the  spirit.  To  begin  with,  it  is  no  use  looking 
back,  and  no  use  whatever  trying  to  recapture 
the  spirit  of  the  past.  The  very  confession  that 
one  wants  to  do  so  is  the  confession  of  a  failure. 
Past  things  and  people  impressed  us,  and  if 
there  was  any  value  in  them,  they  left  their  im- 
pressions upon  us.  Those  impressions  went  to 


216  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

the  moulding  of  us,  and  we  are  what  we  are 
because  of  them.  But  eyes  front!  What  was 
moulded  into  you  is  yours,  and  what  was  not  so 
moulded  can  never  now  truly  be  yours.  It  is 
waste  of  time  and,  what  is  worse,  waste  of  senti- 
ment to  look  back  wistfully  or  regretfully  or 
even  happily.  The  past  is  past  except  so  much 
of  it  as  was  assimilated  by  you  and  so  carried 
on  to  the  present. 

Then  the  half  of  that  looking  back  is  vanity. 
I,  for  example,  hated  to  destroy  my  old  stories 
and  verses.  Truth  to  tell,  I  felt  tender  towards 
them  and  still  half  believed  in  them.  But  no, 
they  are  not  really  of  any  value ;  if  I  could  write 
then,  I  could  write  better  to-day.  Let  us  have 
some  test  and  destroy  ruthlessly  what  does  not 
come  up  to  it.  For  myself,  one  sort  of  test  is,  I 
think,  publication.  If  one  has  practically  no 
name  or  reputation,  no  publishers  will  take 
work  unless  they  think  it  has  merit.  Of  course 
a  publisher  may  make  a  mistake  either  way,  in 
the  rejecting  or  the  accepting,  but  it  is  a  test, 
and  given  a  reputable  publisher  and  reasonable 
work,  it  is  no  bad  one.  As  for  those  things  of 
yesterday,  that  then  one  loved  so  much  and  set 
such  store  upon,  into  the  fire  with  them !  Only 
a  genius  writes  imperishable  stuff  at  twenty- 
three,  and  even  he  will  write  it  again  and  better 
at  thirty-three. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  that  there  are  exceptions 
does  no  more  than  prove  the  rule,  and  it  is  no 


OF  RELICS  AND  FRIENDS  217 

use  legislating  for  oneself  on  the  basis  of  a  pos- 
sible exception.  Such  case  law  is  always  bad 
law.  Why  worry  with  the  dead  of  past  years? 
Let  the  dead  bury  their  dead.  The  untram- 
melled spirit  is  likely  to  prove  of  more  value 
than  any  litter  of  past  years,  and  it  seems  to  me 
that  the  spirit  is  trammelled  by  all  this  sort  of 
thing.  And  it  is  so  also  with  possessions.  I 
think  I  would  rather  have  access  to  some  one 
else's  garden  than  have  one  of  my  own ;  I  would 
rather  the  great  pictures  were  in  a  gallery  than 
in  my  house ;  and  I  would  rather  be  able  to  visit 
a  palace  than  live  in  it.  To  have  and  to  hold 
brings  worries,  or  breeds  a  soporific  satisfac- 
tion. Very  often  it  does  both.  To  possess,  too, 
is  very  largely  to  be  tied  down.  That  is  true  of 
material  things  in  actual  fact,  and  it  is  largely 
true  of  the  spirit.  Doubtless  to  have  continually 
to  fight  for  life  and  to  have  to  wonder  where  the 
next  suit  or  the  next  meal  is  coming  from  is 
just  as  bad,  but  at  any  rate  that  may  breed  the 
dauntless  spirit.  But  it  is  not  even  a  dauntless 
spirit  that  I  want  particularly.  I  want  rather 
a  whimsical,  light-hearted,  indifferent-to-things 
spirit,  a  spirit  that  takes  the  best  from  each 
moment  and  each  experience,  and  then  drops 
the  husk  of  it  and  goes  on.  I  want  a  spirit  that, 
if  creative,  will  be  content  to  create  and  leave, 
leave  for  others  to  use  if  they  want  to  do  so, 
leave  without  a  concern  or  a  regret  if  others 
find  no  use  for  the  work  of  one's  brain.  After 


218  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

all,  for  the  creator  creating  is  its  own  reward; 
if  others  enjoy,  their  enjoyment  may  be  allowed 
to  gladden  one  for  a  moment  or  so,  but  it  must 
not  be  allowed  to  satiate.  • 

All  this  is  so  true  about  one's  friends.  A 
friendship  that  requires  a  correspondence  to 
keep  it  up  is  worthless,  as  worthless  as  a  love 
that  requires  the  contemplation  of  relics  for  its 
stimulus.  So  long  as  there  is  gain  in  a  friend- 
ship exchange  of  ideas  and  intercourse  will 
flow  naturally  from  it;  but  friendship  must 
breed  that  exchange,  and  not  require  the  ex- 
change in  order  to  exist.  People  say:  "It  is 
hard  to  keep  up  with  one's  friends!"  But  I 
would  say  that  the  moment  one  is  conscious  of 
having  to  strive  to  keep  up  with  a  friend,  that  is 
the  moment  in  which  that  friendship  becomes 
worthless.  Do  not,  then,  put  it  in  a  drawer  and 
make  an  effort  to  pull  it  out  now  and  again  and 
look  at  it.  You  and  I,  swung  across  each  other's 
track  by  the  whirl  of  life,  exchange  glances  and 
instinctively  hold  out  hand  to  hand.  And  it  is 
very,  very  good  that  it  should  be  so.  Hand  in 
hand  you  and  I  press  forward  together,  and, 
my  dear,  it  is  more  than  happy,  this  friendship 
of  ours,  is  it  not?  But  if  the  whirl  inexorably 
swing  us  apart,  or  if  that  handclasp  of  ours 
should  cease  to  be  the  clasp  of  mutual  help  and 
assent  and  become  a  tie  which  holds  either  of  us 
back,  why,  then  God  help  us  to  part  with  a 
smile,  and  God  keep  us  from  looking  behind. 


OF  RELICS  AND  FRIENDS  219 

We  shall  have  had  our  day,  its  best,  for  as  much 
as  it  was  best  we  shall  carry  always  in  our 
hearts;  for  to-morrow  we  have  always  to  live. 

No,  the  world  is  very  full  of  fair  things  and 
good  comrades.  There  is  the  unimprisonable 
beauty  of  its  mountains  and  forests  and  seas 
and  plains,  and  there  is  the  marvellous  beauty 
of  the  works  of  its  children  in  the  days  gone  by. 
And  always  there  are  the  sun  and  the  rain  and 
the  wind  for  to-day.  I  would  tramp  gaily 
through  it,  then,  yes,  tramp  through  it  in  spirit 
though  I  live  out  my  days  in  one  village,  re- 
membering that  all  the  good  is  mine  to  take,  and 
mine  to  keep  always  provided  I  give  it  all  away. 
The  joy  of  the  morning  song  of  the  birds  is 
mine  always ;  the  joy  of  the  dew-dusted  flowers 
is  mine  always;  the  joy  of  the  canvases  of  the 
great  artists,  of  the  buildings  of  the  great 
Faith,  of  the  laughter  and  bravery  of  humanity, 
all  mine  always,  so  long  as  I  do  not  try  to  grasp 
and  store  my  treasure,  but  speak  of  it,  write  of 
it,  live  in  the  strength  of  it,  and  create  through 
the  love  of  it.  And  when  I  come  to  lay  down  my 
stick  and  traveller's  knapsack  for  the  last  time, 
I  would  that  there  should  be  nothing  more  of 
mine  to  dispose  of,  nor  any  treasure  other  than 
that  which  the  souls  that  God,  of  His  goodness, 
has  given  me  have  taken  to  themselves  long 
since. 

You  remember  Francis  Thompson's  end,  and 
how  there  was  nothing  left  but  his  published 


220  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

works,  and  a  small  box  of  odds  and  ends  con- 
taining old  pens  that  would  not  write,  a  broken 
pocket-knife,  a  few  bits  of  string,  some  un- 
opened letters — a  pathetic  little  collection,  they 
said.  But  I  like  that,  especially  the  unopened 
letters,  for  a  letter  opens  itself,  or  else  it  is  not 
worth  opening.  And  the  other  day  I  came 
across  an  all  but  forgotten  poem  on  another 
poet,  a  few  verses  that  carry  with  them  that 
wonderful  quality  of  real  poetry  that  cannot  be 
explained  and  that  goes  straight  to  the  heart. 
They  have  gone  straight  to  my  heart,  and  I  be- 
lieve that  they  will  go  straight  to  yours.  If 
they  could  be  a  little  true  of  me,  I  would  be  very 
glad.  Here  they  are: 

"He  came  to  the  desert  of  London  Town, 

Grey  miles  long; 

He  wandered  up  and  he  wandered  down, 
Singing  a  quiet  song. 

"He  came  to  the  desert  of  London  Town, 

Mirk  miles  broad; 

He  wandered  up  and  he  wandered  down, 
Ever  alone  with  God. 

"There  were  thousands  and  thousands  of  human  kind 

In  this  desert  of  brick  and  stone; 
But  some  were  deaf,  and  some  were  blind, 
And  he  was  there  alone. 

"At  last  the  good  hour  came;  he  died, 

As  he  had  lived,  alone; 
He  was  not  miss'd  from  the  desert  wide: 
Perhaps  he  was  found  at  the  Throne." 


25.    OF  CONCLUSIONS 

SO  you  think  my  letters  are  a  strange  mix- 
ture, and  you  want  to  know  what  I  really 
do  think  about  things !  I  can  forgive  you 
the  first  statement,  because  I  suppose  they 
really  are  a  mixture.  But  why  not?  I  never 
could  see  that  it  was  a  just  view  of  life  that  kept 
religion  in  one  watertight  compartment,  love  in 
another,  business  in  a  third,  and  so  on.  Every- 
thing is  part  of  a  whole,  as  God  made  it,  and  the 
other  is  an  artificial  arrangement  for  which  I 
have  no  use.  If  I  cannot  love  and  enjoy  all  the 
more  intensely  because  I  believe,  then  there  is 
something  wrong  with  my  belief.  That  is  one 
of  the  things  I  think,  anyway,  my  dear ;  and,  for 
the  rest,  I  am  really  engaged  in  trying  to  find 
that  highway  through  life  in  which  the  way- 
faring men,  though  fools,  shall  not  err.  It  has 
been  promised,  and  I  believe  it  to  be  there.  Up 
here,  high  on  the  Berg,  I  think  one  has  a  chance 
to  descry  it. 

But  your  demand  for  something  like  a  clear 
statement  interests  me.  After  all,  my  time  is 
nearly  up  here,  and  perhaps  it  is  time  I  made 
you  one,  time,  too,  that  I  made  myself  one,  since 

221 


222  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

soon  I  shall  be  down  from  the  Berg  and  back  in 
the  rush  and  confusion. 

Very  well,  then:  I  think  there  are  just  two 
problems  in  life.  The  first  is  the  adjustment  of 
Nature  and  Religion,  and  the  second  is  the  dis- 
covery of  the  true  Religion.  Possibly  I  have 
not  said  much  about  the  first,  but  it  undoubtedly 
stands  first.  It  is  always  in  my  mind  as  I  ride 
about  on  the  face  of  this  old  Berg,  and  I  fail  to 
see  how  it  can  help  being  there,  since  one  is  so 
close  to  Nature  up  here.  Among  the  flowers 
and  mountains  under  the  sun  and  the  stars,  and 
dealing  with  natives,  one  is  truly  close  to 
Nature,  and  I  am  bound  to  confess  that  I  find 
Nature  a  great  problem.  I  can  see  law  and 
impulse  and  purpose  in  Nature,  but  all  I  see 
perplexes  me  enormously.  On  the  one  hand,  my 
mind — such  as  it  is — cannot  get  away  from  the 
belief  that  Nature  is  God's  business,  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  it  seems  to  me  a  strange  business 
for  God  to  be  mixed  up  in.  For  example,  the 
other  day  I  rode  with  a  good  fellow  who  made 
certain  enthusiastic  observations  as  to  design  in 
the  world.  We  had  been  watching  dung-beetles, 
and  he  said  that  when  he  considered  the  won- 
derful scavenger  system  of  Nature — beetles, 
rats,  flies,  and  so  on — and  the  wonderful  bal- 
ance of  things,  he  saw  God's  hand  in  it  all.  I 
assented — cautiously.  I,  too,  see  a  wonderful 
system;  I,  too,  utterly  fail  to  be  able  to  think 
that  a  purpose  and  a  system  can  grow  out  of 


OF  CONCLUSIONS  223 

nothing  without  a  mind  behind,  that  a  blind 
force  could  come  into  existence  blindly  and  pro- 
duce a  world.  But  if  a  Mind  designed  this 
world,  it  seems  to  me  to  be  a  Mind  as  much  in- 
terested in  the  well-being  of  a  typhus  bacillus  as 
in  man.  Flies,  for  example — they  clean  up  dirt, 
but  the  diseases  they  spread  have  slain  more 
men  than  all  the  wars.  Why?  Because  Nature 
is  just  as  interested  in  finding  a  suitable  home 
for  a  microbe  and  breeding  him  as  she  is  in 
doing  the  same  for  man.  We  are  all  part  of  a 
system,  yes,  but  of  a  ravening,  heartless,  colos- 
sal system  in  which  life  matters,  and  not  man. 

So  I  come  to  it  that  man  is  an  animal;  that 
his  passions  and  impulses  are  really  his  law; 
that  conventions  and  human  arrangements 
ought  to  be  broad-based  on  Nature,  unless  you 
can  produce  some  other  and  stronger  authority. 
Given  that,  of  course,  our  systems  ought  to  be 
based  on  that  authority.  They  ought  not  to  try 
to  ride  two  horses  at  once,  as  I  think  they  do. 
But  let  us  set  that  problematical  authority  aside 
for  a  moment.  Then  a  certain  programme  pre- 
sents itself. 

Take,  for  example,  the  big  sexual  questions. 
Nature  is  out  to  breed  men — and  microbes — as 
hard  as  she  can.  She  has  designed  the  sexes  to 
attract  each  other,  and  love  is  really  her  little 
joke.  Man,  however,  is  the  one  animal  that  has 
really  learned  the  art  of  combination,  and  he  is 
putting  up  a  struggle,  not  merely  for  existence, 


224  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

but  for  a  very  big  place  in  the  sun.  He  is  going 
to  do  his  best  to  check  Nature  in  the  matter  of 
microbes  and  to  develop  Nature  in  the  matter 
of  himself.  The  State  at  present  is  our  biggest 
human  organisation,  and  when  I  think  of  the 
State  and  Nature,  it  seems  to  be  that  I  see  a 
social  and  sexual  programme  to  which,  maybe, 
we  are  coming,  but  coming  all  too  slowly.  The 
State  ought  to  breed  children,  without  a  doubt. 
It  ought  to  encourage  the  sexual  union  of  the 
fittest,  and  see  that  if  the  non-fit  take  that  for 
which  their  nature  craves,  everything  is  done 
that  can  be  done  to  prevent  the  natural  dis- 
astrous consequences.  Surely  that  is  the  merest 
common-sense.  Moreover,  education  has  made 
man  and  woman  equals,  and  the  State  ought  to 
allow  for  that.  In  a  word,  I  can  see  nothing  for 
it  logically,  on  this  hypothesis,  but  Eugenics,  a 
very  advanced  socialism,  the  wholesale  intro- 
duction of  the  easiest  possible  Divorce  system, 
and  so  on.  So,  and  only  so,  can  man  on  the 
earth  hope  to  win  out  against  his  fellow- 
creatures,  and  direct  Nature  to  his  own  ends. 

But  is  this  all?  Well,  on  the  face  of  the  Berg 
I  realise  as  never  before  that  men  have  souls, 
even  black  men,  slaves  to  Nature  though  they 
are.  And  I  realise  that  this  visible  world  is 
only  a  tiny  matter  in  comparison  with  the  in- 
visible that  touches  us  at  every  turn.  The  whole 
of  it,  Nature  and  all  its  laws,  is  but  the  garment 
of  something  else.  I  am  more  sure  of  these 


OF  CONCLUSIONS  225 

things  than  of  anything  else.  Maybe  I  am  a 
colossal  fool,  but  honestly,  as  I  look  out  over 
these  mountains,  I  see  the  spiritual  a  thousand 
times  more  clearly  than  the  material.  A  flower 
dumbfounds  me,  for  although  I  see  the  flower,  I 
see  far  more  plainly  God. 

To  me,  then,  you  see,  cutting  right  across 
Nature  and  her  ravening  laws,  comes  the  ex- 
pectation of  what  I  shall  call  Grace.  By  that 
I  mean  the  expectation  of  something  that  will 
lift  us  out  of  this  world  of  apparently  ceaseless 
and  aimless  becoming,  something  which  will  be 
the  authority  of  the  soul,  something  which  the 
God  Who  designed  Nature  has  also  designed  by 
which  we  may  win  free  in  the  end  from  this( 
ravening  old  world,  transmuting  the  baser^ 
metals  as  we  do  so.  And  to  fit  the  expectation' 
comes  the  Catholic  Vision,  as  I  shall  call  it. 

You  cannot  prove  that  a  flower  is  beautiful, 
and  you  do  not  want  a  proof.  Just  so,  this 
Catholic  Vision  appeals  to  me,  arrests  me, 
dominates  me,  without  a  proof,  though  I  do  not 
say  there  are  no  proofs.  To  me  the  story  of 
Bethlehem  is  so  penetratingly,  wonderfully 
beautiful  that  I  cannot  think  of  it  without  tears. 
God  in  a  human  mother's  arms,  and  in  such  a 
mother's,  and  in  such  a  wise — the  idea  is  more 
lovely  than  the  morning  star,  more  masterful 
than  the  sun  at  noon.  From  it  the  Catholic 
scheme  flows  as  sweetly  and  as  naturally  as  a 
brook  from  a  spring.  Such  union  of  the  human 


226  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

and  Divine  would  inevitably  lead  to  the  forma- 
tion of  a  human  and  Divine  society  like  the 
Catholic  Church.  Her  idea  of  the  Sacraments 
is  no  more  and  no  less  than  Nature  shot  through 
by  Grace,  and  every  hillside  on  the  face  of  the 
Berg  shouts  to  me  of  the  reasonableness  and 
likelihood  of  it.  Her  dogmas  do  not  seem  to  me 
dogmas  at  all,  but  the  most  obvious  statements 
of  the  inevitable.  Take  one  such,  and  we  will 
take  one  of  the  most  disputed — the  Immaculate 
Conception.  Good  heavens!  Could  I  believe 
Almighty  God  to  design  to  be  born  of  a  woman, 
and  to  think  nothing  before  or  after,  of  the 
woman?  Would  He  not  have  prepared  His 
mother  like  "a  garden  enclosed"?  And  as  to 
the  method,  why  it  is  so  natural,  so  simple,  so 
beautiful,  that  it  appeals  to  me,  again,  as  the 
flower  appeals,  and  requires  exactly  the  same 
"proof"! 

"Go  humbly  ...  it  has  hailed  and  snowed  .  .  . 

With  voices  low  and  lanterns  lit; 
So  very  simple  is  the  road, 
That  we  may  stray  from  it." 

I  can  see,  then,  with  what  authority  such  a 
vision  ought  to  speak  in  the  affairs  of  men.  The 
Catholic  Church  might  well  dictate  a  marriage 
and  sexual  law,  based  not  on  man  as  an  animal 
and  Nature,  but  on  man  as  a  soul  and  Grace. 
And  if  Parliaments  of  States  sat  truly  beneath 
the  symbol  of  the  Incarnation,  of  Bethlehem, 


OF  CONCLUSIONS  227 

their  duty  would  be  simple  enough,  and  their 
authority  real.  Man  might  listen  if  their  laws 
were  based  on  this. 

But  I  told  you  my  second  problem.  I  see  a 
Catholic  Vision,  but  has  it  existence  in  fact? 
St.  John  saw  the  New  Jerusalem  descending  to 
earth  as  a  bride  adorned  for  her  husband,  but 
is  the  New  Jerusalem  still  in  the  clouds? 
Plainly  enough  do  I  see  the  Vision;  plainly 
enough  do  I  see  the  ornaments  of  the  bride; 
plainly  do  I  see  that  she  is  fit  for  her  Husband ; 
plainly,  to  leave  parables,  do  I  see  that 
Catholicity  might  make  Man  ready  for  God. 
But,  I  ask  myself  doubtfully,  has  that  Vision 
substance  on  earth?  Have  our  dreams  come 
true? 

I  was  born,  as  you  know,  in  the  Protestant 
religion.  It  is  a  hateful  thing  to  write  anything 
against  what  others  hold  dear,  but  all  I  can  say 
is  that  in  Protestantism  I  see  no  possible  real- 
isation of  this  Vision.  In  its  many  forms  I  see 
only  human  ideas,  full  of  the  faults  of  the  cen- 
turies that  gave  them  birth,  irrational,  illogical, 
and  often  unnatural.  No  form  of  Protestantism 
can  hold  me  any  longer.  If  that  were  all,  I 
should  write  to  you  as  a  reverent  agnostic,  and 
I  would  fling  myself  and  such  energies  as  I  pos- 
sess into  such  social  schemes  as  it  seems  to  me 
are  best  in  our  human  conflict  with  Nature.  On 
such  schemes  I  have  already  touched.  I  should 
be  one  of  those  on  account  of  whose  doings  one 


228  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

might  well  conceive  our  good  fathers  to  turn  in 
their  graves.  And  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
they  may  turn  yet. 

But  not  just  yet.  I  passed,  as  a  result  of  en- 
vironment, from  Protestantism  pure  and  simple 
to  that  very  perplexing  form  of  religion  known 
popularly  as  High  Church  Anglicanism.  As  a 
minister  of  that  religion  I  came  to  the  Berg,  and 
most  of  my  letters  have  been  concerned  with  my 
doings  in  connection  with  it.  And  what  shall  I 
say  of  it?  Nothing  harsh,  hope,  for  the  faith 
of  Pusey  and  Keble  has  given  me  great 
moments,  and  in  their  company  at  times  I  had 
all  but  thought  that  I  saw  the  city  of  God  on 
earth.  Even  now,  it  is  hard  to  turn  away  from 
the  hope  they  held  out.  With  all  its  difficulties 
and  anachronisms  and  unrealities,  there  is  a 
life,  it  seems  to  me,  in  this  form  of  religion,  and 
a  beauty  that  shall  ever,  I  pray  God,  make  me 
tender  towards  the  friends  of  the  past  years. 
But  I  have  made  up  my  mind  on  the  Berg  that 
it  is  not  the  true  Vision  that  floats  before  our 
eyes,  but  a  mirage,  only  to  be  glimpsed  at  times 
and  never  to  be  reached.  To  have  stumbled 
towards  it  across  the  arid  sands  is  all  part  of 
the  discipline  of  life,  but  there  is  only  one  thing 
for  a  traveller  to  do  when  he  realizes  that  a 
mirage  is  but  a  mirage,  if  he  would  have  hope  of 
life.  He  must  turn  his  back  upon  it. 

To  you,  friend  and  more  than  friend,  I  have 
written  of  these  things.  It  helps  to  write  to  a 


OF  CONCLUSIONS  229 

friend.  To  yon,  who  say  that  you  have  learned 
of  me,  and  who  therefore  have  a  right  to  it,  I 
have  made  this  apologia,  poor  thing  though  it 
be.  What  it  may  mean  to  us  both,  who  can  say? 
It  is  a  hard  and  cruel  old  world,  as  a  friend  of 
mine  says,  half  in  ridicule,  but  we  have  to  live 
in  it.  It  may  hold  nothing  for  either  of  us,  but 
I  love  its  many  beauties,  its  tangled  problems, 
and  its  bewildered  children,  and  am  very  con- 
scious that,  whatever  God  there  be,  a  sword  is 
set  in  the  hand  of  each  of  us.  To  keep  the  blade 
untarnished  and  to  do  some  work  with  it  is  the 
most  that  any  man  can  hope  for.  Nor  do  I 
think  that  that  Vision  is  ever  likely  to  fade 
from  my  eyes,  or  you  from  my  thoughts,  and, 
for  weal  or  woe,  I  ain  very  glad  of  both. 


26.    OF,  THE  KAINBOWS  END 

I    THOUGHT  that  I  had  written  my  last 
letter  to  you  from  the  Berg,  my  dear,  but  so 
lovely  and  wonderful  a  thing  happened  this 
morning  that  I  must  write  again,  even  although 
I  am  not  now  upon  the  Berg  at  all.    It  came 
about  in  this  way. 

You  will  remember  that  I  have  written  to  you 
several  times  of  the  wonderful  cloud  scenery 
along  the  border,  how  one  is  often  above  the 
clouds  in  the  sun  while  they  wash  around  the 
mighty  summits  of  this  huge  and  rocky  barrier. 
Well,  last  night  I  slept  for  the  last  time  up  here. 
I  should  have  liked  that  my  last  night  had  been 
spent  under  the  stars  round  a  camp  fire  and  far 
from  any  one,  but  that  could  not  be,  and  I  slept 
at  the  store  that  stands  just  at  this  "gate" 
down  to  the  plains  below.  From  the  stoep  one 
could  shoot  an  arrow  across  the  border  and  out 
into  the  void,  where  it  would  fall  several  thou- 
sand feet,  most  likely,  before  it  struck  the  lower 
and  more  gradually  sloping  face  of  the  Berg. 
In  the  morning  I  woke  early  and  got  up  at 
once  for  a  last  early  morning  up  here.  I  went 
out,  and  then  I  stood  transfixed.  Often  as  I 
have  seen  it,  the  beauty  of  the  mist  to-day 


OF  THE  RAINBOW'S  END  231 

almost  made  me  hold  my  breath.  The  still 
white  sea  rolled  up  nearly  to  my  feet;  indeed, 
in  a  little  I  walked  to  where  it  did  lap  my  feet. 
To  the  horizon  ahead  it  stretched,  a  tossed, 
tumbled,  breaking,  but  all  unmoving  ocean  of 
cloud.  As  I  had  seen  before,  so  now  it  gathered 
about  the  krantzes  like  foam  on  the  edge  of  the 
ocean ;  cloud  spray  dashed  up  against  the  rocks, 
cloud  spume  running  up  the  fissures.  You 
really  cannot  picture  its  beauty.  For  the  glori- 
ous sun  shone  on  it  all,  warm  and  bright  in  the 
early  morning,  and  about  me  birds  twittered, 
and  the  green  lands  on  our  side  rolled  down  to 
a  little  stream  and  up  beyond  to  the  still  higher 
peaks. 

So  much  I  had  seen  before,  but  this  morning 
I  did  a  new  thing.  I  stepped  down  into  the  sea. 
Very  cautiously  I  climbed  down  the  steep,  pre- 
cipitous descent,  until,  in  a  few  moments,  I  was 
submerged.  I  felt  like  a  sea-king  in  the 
"Arabian  Nights "  returning  to  his  home. 
Literally,  one  moment  my  head  was  out  of  the 
4  '  water, "  and  the  next  I  could  not  see  a  dozen 
yards  for  clinging,  wet,  vapoury  cloud.  But  I 
climbed  on  down,  and  then,  after  a  very  few 
minutes  as  it  seemed  to  me,  I  emerged  below 
that  ocean.  And  I  just  sat  down  and  gasped 
with  astonishment. 

Far,  far  below  lay  another  world.  It  was 
dullish  and  grey,  but  I  could  see  stunted  trees 
and  huts  and  cattle  and  even  tiny  tots  of  horse- 


232  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

men.  Just  above  my  head,  so  near  that  I  could 
lift  my  hand  and  touch  it,  was  the  sky  of  that 
world.  It  stretched  to  the  horizon  before  me,  a 
proper  cloudy  sky,  but  it  reached  to  my  hand 
where  I  sat.  I  stood  up,  held  up  my  hands,  and 
leaned  a  little  forward  over  the  world  below.  I 
was  Atlas,  holding  up  the  sky. 

I  remember  I  laughed,  and  my  laugh  seemed 
to  be  blanketed  in  the  sky  that  I  was  touch- 
ing. I  laughed  because  it  was  a  fairy  story 
come  quite  true.  Why,  as  a  child,  how  often  I 
have  wanted  to  go  far,  far  out  and  touch  the 
sky,  and  how  often  to  find  the  rainbow's  end! 
As  I  grew  up  they  told  me  it  could  not  be  done. 
I  suppose  they  thought  it  could  not  quite  hon- 
estly. But  I  had  done  it ;  I  had  wandered  many 
years  and  very  far  first;  but  I  had  done  it  at 
last.  I  felt  like  a  god;  I  really  did. 

Then  I  sat  down  again  and  thought.  Down 
below  the  folk  were  getting  up.  Women  were 
coming  to  their  doors,  and  looking  up  at  the  sky 
far  above  them,  and  grumbling  a  bit  because 
there  was  no  sun  again.  Little  children  were 
waking  up,  and  staring  at  the  sky,  and  wonder- 
ing what  in  the  world  was  beyond  it,  and  asking 
questions,  and  being  told  maddening  things  that 
they  really  could  not  believe.  And  there  was  I, 
sitting  in  their  sky,  looking  down  upon  them. 

I  grew  afraid  as  I  looked  at  that  dull  world. 
It  seemed  so  complete,  so  shut  in,  so  normal,  as 
I  stared  out  at  it,  that  I  began  really  to  wonder 


OP  THE  RAINBOW'S  END  233 

if  I  was  shut  down  there  for  ever,  and  if  I 
should  never  see  the  smiling  sun  and  my  horses 
and  Cyril  and  the  good  pasture  lands  again.  So 
I  turned  and  climbed  quickly  up  and  poked  my 
head  out  once  more. 

Coming  back  like  that,  the  world  above  looked 
more  beautiful  than  ever,  and  so  shining  and 
warm.  I  stretched  my  hands  out  to  the  sun,  and 
grasped  it.  I  picked  a  bunch  of  little  wild 
flowers. 

You  will  not  think  me  foolish,  dear,  will  you? 
It  did  happen  just  exactly  like  that;  I  have  not 
exaggerated  one  bit.  It  is  all  over  and  past 
now,  that  wonderful  morning  hour,  but  I  think 
God  must  have  given  me  such  a  last  vision  out 
of  the  very  bottom  of  His  kind  Heart.  For 
more  is  over  than  the  morning,  as  you  will  know 
from  my  letters,  and  I  am  indeed  down  from  the 
Berg,  exiled,  a  wanderer,  in  a  strange  country. 
But — is  it  not  strange? — you  remember  my 
first  letter,  a  quite  honest  and  frank  first  letter, 
in  which  we  talked  of  travel  and  I  told  you  that 
at  the  journey's  end  I  believed  one  would 
always  find  a  friend?  Well,  of  course,  I  know 
now.  I  know  what  is  beyond  the  lowering  grey 
clouds,  and  I  do  not  think  they  will  ever  daunt 
me  more.  The  way  may  be  long,  and  it  may  be 
wearisome,  but  I  shall  walk  as  one  who  has  seen. 
For  beyond  the  sky  of  our  silly  human  seeing  is 
a  fair,  smiling  land  to  which  we  shall  come  hand 
in  hand  one  day.  You  may  be  surprised,  but  I 


234  PILGRIM  PAPERS 

shall  not  be,  when  we  look  round  and  see  how 
sweet  and  familiar  it  all  is.  Why,  you  will  say, 
"This  is  the  very  land  we  loved  in  our  dreams 
when  it  seemed  impossible  that  the  least  of 
them  should  come  true!"  And  we  shall  stretch 
our  hands  out  in  the  warm  sunshine  and  grasp 
it  and  laugh  at  each  other.  And  we  shall  wan- 
der over  the  green  turf  towards  the  clear  water, 
and  I  promise  you  we  will  pick  a  bunch  of  the 
white  and  blue  and  gold  and  crimson  flowers  at 

the  rainbow's  end. 

#  *  *  *  * 

Down  below  the  folk  will  be  waking,  and  the 
children  getting  out  of  bed  and  running  to  the 
window,  and  (just  as  we  used  to  do)  they  will 
ask  what  is  up  there.  The  grown-ups  will  say, 
"Heaven,  dear!" 

"And  what  is  Heaven  like,  Mummy?"  one 
will  ask,  and  Mummy  will  say,  you  can  be  very 
sure,  for  years  and  years  and  years  to  come, 
"Oh,  I  don't  know,  child  Don't  ask  so  many 
questions!" 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


REC'D  L.D 


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